I can’t drink like I did before
the doctor found me at death’s door.
Worst case that she ever saw.
Took me ages to withdraw.
When she left I knew the score,
either give up drinking or
lose the woman I adore.
I’ll give it up for her I swore.
A curse upon the monkey’s paw
for granting me one last encore,
Stag Do at The Troubadour,
drinking cava through a straw.
A stellar cask of cronies roar.
Soon my spirit levels soar
in search of music and amor
and two more brandies por favor.
“Excuse me mate you’re being a bore.”
Excuse me mate your wife’s a whore!
The bouncer picks me off the floor,
kicks me through the nightclub door.
“If you come back I’ll call the law.”
I go back ’cause I want war.
Swing my bat and break his jaw
then break into a liquor store.
If I behave, I’m out in four.
That’s why I can’t drink no more.
Two Doors by Simon Tindale was commended in the Sentinel Literary Quarterly Poetry Competition (November 2019) judged by Oz Hardwick.