Truncated Resolve Poem by metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)

"Good sir, " the doctor told me on the morn.
"Like most dilemmas, yours rides on the horn
of vices left unchecked, and now I fear
The only succor left to you is clear.

So stow that stout, and eighty-six the ale.
Surrender vile libations, dark or pale.
Relinquish all your grog, for you should know
that if you don't you're gonna lose that toe."

I took my doc's advise for three long days,
and then sobriety burned off the haze
through which I'd viewed my world for years and years.
And thus I was deposed, this king of beers.

The fourth day found my back upon my stool.
I'm learning how to hop, I ain't no fool!