Even the solitary drinker in me
doesn't want to know.
I've spilt myself too many times,
knocking over the holy wine.
Well, I guess I've got to pick myself up,
get out of the gutter,
dust down my battered hat.
I've yawned so many rainbows
that I don't even know
where I left my guts, it's like trying
to find your pants after a party.
How am I ever going to get to heaven?
I can't turn up wearing my soul
like a dirty old raincoat.
Sometimes the air seems so pure
I can breathe the colour blue.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I agree with David, holy or not, drinks should not got to the head! nice write 10 too. Regards.