Bottle

You’ve got no bottle baby

I saw you look at her

wanting to say it was over

the hills and far and away,

the worst night of your life

Your wife has bottle baby

Hundreds, with labels like Gordon’s,

under the sink full of plates, smashed

Like potatoes, boiling, angry, hard

Sign here, unreadable , like a doctor

prescribing the last thing you need

to make your heart start to bleed

Maybe you ought to call her

Pop her a pill, box

You’ve got no bottle baby

No money left, time gentlemen please

A kiss, a thought, the fumes of the bus

Mess up your face, broken bottles

Copyright © 2001 Cheynestore/Ashley Cheyne