The Drunken Poet

The Drunken Poet

The poet staggered, words astray,

His rhymes forgot by the night’s state of play .

Two kind ladies, with hearts so true,

Helped him home it was the best thing to do

Upon the threshold, the door swung wide,

His wife stood firm, eyes opened wide.

“Care to explain?” she calmly said,

“Or is your muse still lost in your head?”

He swayed and mumbled, “Twas inspiration’s call,

A pint or two, or maybe them all.

These fine women, my saviors true,

Escorted me home when the streets I misconstrued.

The ladies blushed, they made their retreat,

Leaving the poet to face defeat.

His wife sighed deeply, her patience worn thin,

“You write of love, but yours for me is so thin .

So the drunken poet learned with dread,

To choose his muse with care instead.

For while the ale may cloud his mind,

It’s his wife at home who isn’t blind.

He vowed no more drink and writing

His wife face angry is so frightening

poems from then on, he wrote with care

To drink and write again he wouldn’t dare.