The Bottle

Once upon a Thursday dreary,

Thinking soberly, and weary,

Mulling every single incident the night might have in store,

Suddenly there came a knocking,

As of someone roughly socking,

On my temples, rudely clocking, pounding through my skull’s front door,

“Tis’ a vicious, vile headache through my cranial front door.

Only this, and nothing more.”

With the agony, quite bruising,

Hence I contemplated snoozing,

But instead resolved to languish with my head upon the floor.

But the headache still persisted,

“Run to Frist,” my mind insisted,

Heed the hunger you’ve resisted, dance the night on Cottage floor!

“First I’ll douse my head in water, then to Frist, and then their floor?”

Off to Frist, or the U-Store.

So I sat, engaged in scheming,

Of a quicker route, still dreaming,

I cut short my dorm-room music by the fabulous Sean Paul.

As I went to leave, proceeding,

I observed the door receding,

When an object lay, misleading, ‘twixt the hole within my wall,

Something frightful lay misleading by the aperture and wall…

Twas a jug of alcohol.

And the bottle was beguiling,

Had seduced me into smiling,

Thus I contemplated reasons for its presence near my wall.

This and more I stood divining,

With my head at ease reclining,

Saw the glis’ning bottle shining, now adjacent to my wall

The emitted, warming glow, and my illuminated wall…

And I wanted alcohol.

Thus I sat, engaged in guessing,

But no syllable expressing

To the jug whose brilliant luster was entrancing more and more…

Still I questioned its creation,

Its conspicuous location,

And the imminent elation, should its contents fill my core,

Thus the evil bottle tempted me, my alcoholic core,

Sitting right there on the floor.

Right below Blair’s noble arch,

The spring was coming, it was March,

And my mouth felt dry and parched, and yet the jug was at my door.

Hence to stop my heady aching,

Short of ceasing standing waking,

I began the night’s mistaking, grabbing jug from off my floor,

Most horrendous was my error, taking jug from off my floor…

Quoth the vessel, “DRINK, sophomore!”

Much I marveled this ungainly

Jug addressing me so plainly,

Still I reasoned, rather vainly, that this jug was a cure-all.

So I sipped from jug of malice,

Lucious vodka, Crystal Palace,

But the vodka, cold and callous, still was full, and I did fall…

In amazement, for it seemed as if I hadn’t drank at all…

Quoth the jug, “Drink alcohol.”

Resolution now redoubled,

With my thinking somewhat troubled,

From intoxicated ether, coupled with the vessel’s call,

I had chugged substantial booze

And yet this bottle seemed to choose

In fact, to utterly refuse to be ingested now at all!

I was certain my consumption had exceeded none at all.

So I chugged more alcohol.

But the jug remained unfinished,

With its volume undiminished.

Still was full, thus I decreed that I’d defeat it with a chug.

I drank more, my mind conceited,

I would see the juice depleted,

But the task stayed, uncompleted, the advantage to the drug.

I had chugged, and still it filled with the unconquerable drug.

So I smashed it like a bug.

Smashed the jug upon the entry

But as if some evil sentry,

Stood undamaged, like an apparition passing through the wall,

“Can you explicate remaining after impacts here sustaining?”

Now tempestuous, complaiting its surviving after all,

“What unholy force to tether keeps you solid after all?”

Quoth the jug, “Drink alcohol.”

“Prophet” said I, “thing of evil!

Prophet still, if jug or devil,

Whether Ivy sent, or upperclassman left you at my wall,

Glass of Satan, filled with liquor,

My intestines growing sicker,

Must I find a holy vicar to prevent what shall befall,

What abhorrent fate awaits me, can you tell what shall befall?”

Quoth the bottle, “Alcohol.”

“Prophet” said I, “thing of evil!

Prophet still, if jug or devil,

By the heaven that bends above us, by the G-d we both adore

Tell this horny soph’more whether

Chick and I might leave together,

Will I see her regions, nether, tell me if this shall befall?

I would like to bed a female, thus I plead, shall this befall?”

Quoth the bottle, “Alcohol.”

“You indomitable bottle!

Your smooth neck I now shall throttle!

I’ll consume, but not because you ask, but for to quell your gall.”

So I disregarded pacing,

Drank as TI morons racing,

My inebriate disgracing forced my head into the wall.

I relinquished my objective as my head approached the wall.

Jug still full with alcohol.

And the vessel, never quitting,

Still is sitting, still is sitting,

Perched upon my desk of cedar, resting there against my wall.

And my friends plead “Byowitz,

Lay off the Natty and the Schlitz,

You should avoid the liquor blitz,” but I will drink until they call.

Thus a hermit here, shit-tarded, with my head against my wall.

Quoth the bottle, “Alcohol.”





Aside from the usual treatment sessions, some alcohol rehabs offer activities that would help patients come to terms with their own issues by themselves.


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