good christ how many pitchers of bass was that

[spatch]

I have no food. I have no juice.
It's pouring out, so there's no use
In plodding downhill to the store.
I think I'd sleep a few days more
If certain cats would take a pause
From blessing paper bags with claws
(They don't listen to no groan,
Just to objects weakly thrown
And all my bedside ammo's gone.)
So bravely forth I soldier on
Making some sad compromise
With pillows over ears and eyes
I shift uncomfortably in bed
And every time I turn my head
The Anvil Chorus clangs bombastic.
In other words, I feel fantastic.

Comments

[archangelsk.livejournal.com]

Regrettably, I can provide
But these few words to stem the tide
Of woe that you will face today;
Distance makes this the only way.
Try herding cats into a room
From which they'll not disturb your gloom.
The door do close - this should suffice
to bar them from returning thrice.
That clamor in your head address;
Water and Advil, I would guess.
Do not lament losing a day;
Recall last night's fun and think 'Yay!'
And as you contemplate the beer,
Your friends gather and send good cheer.