All Hung Over

All Hung Over (or the morning after the night before)

If you could all talk a bit quieter,

And keep some of your noise down,

I’d be grateful to you for the favour,

For I’ve been a bit of a clown.

My head is terribly throbbing.

My mouth’s the bottom of a bird-cage,

And my tongue it’s all coated

My skin is burning in rage.

My limbs are all of a tremble,

And my throat is feeling all furred.

The room it is spinning round slowly,

And my vision has become decidedly blurred.

I can hardly bear to open my eyes.

I can’t stand this too-piercing light.

I’m suffering real badly this morning,

For the major sins of last night.

I badly need some Alka-Selzer,

To settle my stomach real quick.

I can’t stand here for much longer.

In fact, I think I’m going to be sick.

I’ve over-indulged – that’s clear.

I obviously don’t know when to stop.

But I’ll be alright tomorrow,

And I’ll never touch another drop.

The pounding pain in my head is real bad.

I think I started drinking last November,

But how I made it home again last night,

You know – I really can’t remember.

I guess it must have been quite a session.

I know that we started with beer,

Then we went on to spirits & cocktails.

After that, nothing’s quite clear.

There were drinking games and some forfeits.

I must have drunk lots and lots.

Just a few tequila slammers,

Then “drink your way through the bar” using shots.

My clothes are all of a mess,

And now I’m starting to worry.

For the brown stains on my shirt,

Shows that we must have stopped for a curry.

Or it could have been even worse.

If so, I’ll have to go into re-hab,

For the truth is I might have succumbed

To the charms of a doner kebab.

  

I’d like to lie down for a while,

At least until I’m feeling more chipper.

I’d like to get undressed,

But my fingers may not cope with the zipper.

They say the best cure is a full English,

Or an omelette with ham & quite cheesy,

But now every time I smell food,

I just start to feel queasy.

But, I’ll have just have to get a grip of myself,

And shake off this beer-smelling fog.

For the pub’s open again quite soon

And it’ll be time for some hair of the dog.

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2019