I’ve suffered at enough New Year’s Eve parties in the past. This is a poem reflecting on those escapades. It’ll be a hot water bottle and BBC2 unless my phone rings….
Raging head and bloodshot eyes
Lipstick stains on paisley ties
Wotsits floating in the sink
Tree lights flicker, on the blink
Toilet broken, ceased to flush
Chucking in the holly bush
Party poppers long since spent
Coffee table with a dent
Croaking voice and tongue that’s furred
Short on balance, vision blurred
What’re the words to Auld Lang Syne?
Has anyone got the right time?
Mistletoe hanging, hope to meet
Someone willing, with a heartbeat
Suffering Auntie Rita’s filthy songs
To the skirl of pipes and Big Ben’s bongs
Crawling down the hall on all fours
Listening for groans behind shut doors
Sick and tired of grannies going loco
Next year it’s Jools and a mug of cocoa