Wean Simple Small Regrets, Time without large Sorrows, Spent with horrifying Recompense, How fey Tomorrows? Talk to No One, Shut off your Phone Sweat our the Piss, While you are Alone, Sober or Dead, inside a Head, Decide what you need, Drink, or, Fed. A simple sip of Whiskey, Allows you to ignore, All those fucking Thinkings, You certainly abhor, while a little bit, or a crust of bread, might help you sober up, but you would rather, be dead. Nothing left and nothing gained, with all this silly thought you've pained, Sober up and pray, Or drink, and write poems gay, Sad simple truth is, I cannot do both, and living, is so long and Loathe.