18th Century Hangover
(a play in one act)
Why doth mine head feel like a scraped out pumpkin?
The seeds to be roasted upon an open fire.
Thine eyes are like triangles, but alas no candle to light upon the inside of thee empty vessel.
Could it be the libations of the night previous?
Alas, me thinks it could sadly be.
O, bright lights. Thee make the eyes ache. And the pounding of the keyboard is deafening upon my ears.
I shall go hither upon my steed to pay a few shillings to the apothecary for the courtesy of an Advil.
But i fear my efforts will be in vain.
Why doth mine head feel like a scraped out pumpkin?
The seeds to be roasted upon an open fire.
Thine eyes are like triangles, but alas no candle to light upon the inside of thee empty vessel.
Could it be the libations of the night previous?
Alas, me thinks it could sadly be.
O, bright lights. Thee make the eyes ache. And the pounding of the keyboard is deafening upon my ears.
I shall go hither upon my steed to pay a few shillings to the apothecary for the courtesy of an Advil.
But i fear my efforts will be in vain.
posted by Saucy Monk at 10:14 AM
2 Comments:
Encore! Encore!
Oscar Wilde ain't got shit on you!
aye, I stand under the frigid stream of mine showerhead, but the cold substance doth not relinquish the cranial poundings. It feels as if some man hath a death-grip on mine genitalia. I weep.
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