”Message In A Bottle”
There once was an Aussie called Plot who liked Fosters.
A lot.
It wasn’t a problem him polishing off
each drop in the bottle,
while locked in his office,
watching the clock.
Popping the top offered him solace.
A fizzing, slow, release
from the minute opened.
Needed in a nominal job where his boss was a knob.
He sniffled soberly.
So what if he
was a slovenly slob who’d clock in unwashed?
He could do this in his sleep.
Well, probably not,
but it wasn’t a problem.
He was used to it you see.
Usually the people with functioning alcoholism are.
It’s alarming how disregarded liver scarring is
until it hits them hard.
The shivers started,
but it wasn’t a problem.
He promised it wasn’t while grovelling bosses
to stop with their nonsense
and look at what he’d accomplished.
They wanted him gone.
This time it was it.
The options on offer were resign or dismissal
and the guy was too fickle
to realise he should quit.
So what still drives him to drink?
The loss of his job wasn’t a problem.
It’s never a problem,
until it finally is...