Drinks

Drinks
By: Luke Breen
Glass is holder
Or a folder
For what lies ahead
The night’s not dead
Your not going to bed
You haven’t even been fed
Come on, lets go Ted
It’s all in your head
Though your eyes are filled with such dread
You needed to be led
From your bed
It’s time to taste
No time to waste
I drink from my wine
To feel fine
Though I can’t walk a straight line
As I look up the clock struck nine
So I gather what’s mine
It isn’t late, but It’s time
As I walk down the street
I keep an eye on my feet
That was a nice treat
With so many people to meet
Like Pete
Who sells shoes for woman’s feet
Drinking is neat
The night’s near dead
I must find my bed
Though the music beats in my head
I probably need led
I already lost Ted
I should of stayed with him
Instead of Tim
Who is just too full of gin
Now we’ve been feed
We were going to bed
With nowhere to be led
Can fill you with such dread
With my hands as cold as lead
I lay, in this grass that said do not tread
 I accept as my new bed