Alcoholics, the lot of them.
Blokes and birds.. full of it
That’s what I call them,
the meaningless words dispersed,
without substance at soirees.
The most boring ones stock the most alcohol,
prophesising the boredom in store, which
can only be headed off by a glass full.
There’s a few fooled alright,
into thinking they’re having a grand old time
Their liquor tempered babblings flowing forth like a burst keg.
Someone told me this was the good life,
About that time,
I walked away from them,
and their Grandmothers hip replacement,
a fascinating tale I’m certain.
Don’t make a fool of yourself.
Don’t drink too much.
Sober advice I’m sure,
but nobody says what they ought to say,
have a few shots, talk about 100ml
‘Go easy on the words’