The Drunkard's Prayer

Bless me, Father, for I am full of booze.
I know--it’s not exactly breaking news
To see me weaving like a wind-blown kite
And slurring all my words--it’s just tonight.

Forgive me when I’m high on Cabernet

And drop more F-bombs than a Mamet play.
Please let me keep my big stupid mouth shut.
After three pints, I talk out of my butt,
Lecturing everyone like they’re a dope
And I’m one half professor, one half Pope.
Forgive me for that silly incident
That turned into a drunken argument
Where all I did was pound the bar and shout.
I can’t remember what it was about.
I do recall, at some point, someone threw
A pint of Guinness and a punch or two
When I called him a product of inbreeding.
(I guess that’s why my forehead is still bleeding.)

Bless me, Father, for I got truly faced
Not letting shots of whiskey go to waste.
The ones I drank tonight could fill two steins
(That’s why my head is full of cactus spines.)

Don’t let Jack Daniels make me pick a fight

Just because I had ten of him tonight,

But let him make me sappy and forgiving.

And when it comes to how long I’ll be living,

Please let me be a turtle, not a comet.

And please don’t let me wake up in my vomit.

But if I have to throw up, let it be

Where everybody does it—on the G.

Forgive me for the drunken pass I made
At whatsername, hoping that I’d get laid--
Like that could ever happen. Sex is iffy
When you’re too smashed to get a decent stiffy.
Liquored up? I’m a failure at coition:
The best that I can do in my condition
Is hug and kiss and (when I stick my ass out)
Try not to do a face plant when I pass out.

And please don’t let me break my fucking nose—

Just let me wake up to a trail of clothes

That leads from my front door right to my bed,

Where dwarves swing pick-axes inside my head

And I can hear air molecules colliding

And feel my body’s every cell dividing

While Nausea just wants to play Red Rover.

Calling out “Hey—send Matthew’s lunch right over!”

Oh Lord, save me from shakes and hypertension
And those who think I need an intervention.
Save me from blondes, both real and from the bottle.
Save me from brunettes that I want to throttle.
Save me from redheads with their scarlet bangs--
The only sane ones are orangutangs.

Save me from hitting on Jane, Jill or Jenny
Whenever I’ve had ten or twelve too many,
And let me not remember what I said
To try to get their asses into bed
Or all the needy depths I did descend to--
And if I can’t forget, let me pretend to.

Oh Lord, let me get buybacks everywhere,
And let me make a style out of despair.
Let my salvation never quite find me
And desiccation be my destiny.
Let me be laughed with when I’m not laughed at
And never wear a lampshade for a hat.
I don’t care if the world thinks I’m a joke--
Just let my liver work until I croak.

And when I die and finally meet my fate,

And stand there, swaying, at St Peter’s Gate,

And God frowns down on me, as if to say:

“Look at you, man—you drank your life away!”—

I don’t care if I’m bum-rushed down to hell

Or hear the happy sound of Heaven’s bell—

I don’t care if there’s punishment and suffering

And pain worse than my wifi always buffering,

Or if I join heaven’s angelic vocal—

Just send me to the place that has a local.

Copyright 2017 Matthew J Wells