You have no idea how the hell you got home. 
You were out on the town until four; 
Your wallet is gone, the lights are all on, 
And you woke fully dressed on the floor. 

There is puke on your trousers, and wine on your shirt, 
And a drum thumping loud in your head. 
The nausea strikes, and you throw up your guts, 
Then retreat to the womb of your bed.  

You’ve lost a shoe and your mobile phone, 
And perhaps two or three of your friends; 
Although if those folk were as shit-faced as you, 
You might one day make some amends. 

Your hands are shaking, your mouth is as dry 
As the base of a budgie’s cage. 
Never again, you say to yourself; 
It’s time to turn a new page. 

Instead of pissing your life up the wall, 
You’re going to live like a monk. 
You’ll be pure and reclusive, and meditate on 
The depths to which you have sunk. 

But by lunchtime, you’re feeling the need for a drink – 
Just the one, to steady your nerves. 
You’ll give up tomorrow, you swear to yourself; 
Give your body the break it deserves. 

You pop to the pub, and your wallet is there, 
So you order the hair of the dog. 
The next thing you know, it’s midnight again; 
You’re back home with your head down the bog. 

That was absolutely the very last time. 
You’re sick of the trouble and strife. 
But it’s hard to get down off the merry go round; 
Some are stuck in this fairground for life. 

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