There's a man who lives at the bottom of the bottle or so my brother would tell me, a Muse that led men to a path of sin. My sister would sit on the Comfy Couch™, Heart pounding like a kick drum,
Until she dried out on the pleather. Hemingway shotgun gla** splattered whiskey on my throat's wall, waiting for the lights to end, while I keep my heels on.