The reason I’m pissed is mellow fruitfulness
imbibed from bin ends in a basement bar;
and if I’d wisely drunk a great deal less
I might remember where my legs now are.
But I’m a taster who must drain each glass,
no swilling round and spitting out for me;
and that is why I’m sprawled here on my arse,
my legs both AWOL from below the knee.
The invitation said, “From eight till ten.”
By 8.15, awash with Cabernet
and far too drunk to say a simple “When,”
my legs had gone — which meant I had to stay.
Now, damage done, I’ll try just one glass more
then crawl towards the Pinot Noir next door.