“The whiskey was a good start. I got the idea from Dylan Thomas. He’s this poet who drank twenty-one straight whiskeys at the White Horse Tavern in New York and then died on the spot from alcohol poisoning. I’ve always wanted to hear the bartender’s side of the story. What was it like watching this guy drink himself out of here? How did it feel handing him number twenty-one and watching his face crumple up before the fall of the stool? And did he already have number twenty-two poured, waiting for this big fat tip, and then have to drink it himself after whoever came took the body away?”  ― Michael Thomas Ford, Suicide Notes

Weeks on end drowning in these spirits brewed
Bumping and stumbling, and a few more days are screwed

I’ve given up the outlawed and on board is the legal kind
And society says it’s ok to throw it away and imbibe

The Wagon calls again and the wheels turn so slow
That’s real damn good ’cause I jump on as it goes

The Drink she calls every morning before the sun tames the night
and she’ll sing and dance all day till sleep wins the fight

God for one day where something won’t wrestle for my soul
It isn’t just the past that I finally need to really let go

The chains of my thirst bring them and I hide my ears
to silence the sadness that grows from minutes to endless years