Sonnet 146

“Come bide at mine after the pub tonight.
We’ll snort my talcum muled in from Peru
and, winged by psilocybin, take our flight.
There’s Beethoven for me, dubstep for you,
there’s porn congealing on my ancient Mac,
and Heineken should you fancy a drink,
or maybe supermarket Armagnac.”
The aneurism’s left him with a wink,
and blunts the former sharpness of his brain.
He heaves himself upright upon his stick,
and limps out of the room in obvious pain.
We listen as he’s copiously sick.
He swears upon returning that he’s fine,
sits down again, and chops out three more lines.