Hangovers

We swigged

And I suffered through a glass of tepid, flat prosecco

(Complimentary so failure to chug was not an option)

Then the glass turned bottle-shaped

And bubbles pierced my lips and throat

And I’m pretty sure my teeth groaned after being sugar-slapped.

After three glasses each (or two?) the bottle was empty

Like an abandoned alcoholic barnyard

Snatched off our table by a server who brought us pizza too late

And our bill too soon.

I’m sitting there swigging fizz and swallowing bubbles

And then I’m quaffing double vodkas

Served in cups which are too small

The spirit explodes in my mouth like a bomb made of fiery gasoline

Meant for cars not people surely

But dancing helps, and I soon forget I’m sipping burning sludge

And it’s onto the next, and then a shot

(Because why not?)

The hangover is awful and obscene and my tongue feels like a bristly rug

That’s been soaked in alcohol and doused in fuel

My brain is fried and my lips are chapped

All this for a boogie?

I can’t tell if it’s worth it or not.