Monday, 8 October 2012

The Badger

For RJT and the thousands who don't have his willpower =)

As I woke, in pain and bleary, with a stench so foul and beery,
I wrestled with this query: How’d I end up here once more?
Indistinctly I remember, I’d been on a vodka bender –
Now I lay with head so tender on the clammy kitchen floor:
                                    This I knew, but nothing more.

Well, it’s lucky no one found me with those bottles all around me,
Staring, anxious and astounded through an open cupboard door.
’Cos there under the sink was what I’d clearly had to drink –
Nestled next the box of Persil was a bottle of Lenor.
                                    Fabric softener called Lenor.

Now in my younger years, I drank many kinds of beers;
Wines and spirits; alcoholic drinks galore;
But I’ve never been so ‘punk’ that fabric softener’s been drunk,
However low I’ve sunk when I’m really fucking poor.
                                    And I’m often very poor.

What the hell had I been thinking in the midst of all that drinking –
That I needed subtle hints of lemon freshness at my core?
And why even stop there when there’s plenty of Fairy
Liquid, Daz, and Ariel for a nightcap I could pour?
                                    (Or, in the case of washing powder, snort)

So I’m lying there in bits, belly full of beer shits,
And a loathing of myself which I have clearly earned, I’m sure.
When like fearsome thunder clapping, there arose a noisome tapping –
Only Michael Winner rapping could annoy me any more.
                                    Michael Winner. What a whore.

Then as the sound began to rise, just like the pain behind my eyes,
I quite slowly realised I was on my own no more -
For as far as I could gather, at my feet there sat a Badger,
His face dripping and all spattered, blood red in tooth and claw:
                                    Evil Badger, drenched in gore.

The Badger sat there grinning, like the ghost of all my sinning,
Only grinning, always grinning, with a smirk upon his jaw.
Has he come here to confuse me, to torment me and abuse me?
It cannot be to soothe me with that blood upon his paw –
                                    Oh Badger! Whyfor?

Still he sits, and shows no motion, nor no flicker of emotion,
Or any kind of notion as to what he’s come here for;
Just sitting in the gloom, emanating clouds of doom
That filled my chilly room with a glimpse of what’s in store
                                    For the fool who drank Lenor.
And still there is this crashing, like fifty cymbals clashing
In my head with heated passion – how much more could I endure?
My senses all were routed, and my sanity I doubted
As desperate, I shouted with all the strength that I could draw
                                    At the Badger on the floor:

“Oh, why do you annoy me? Were you sent here to destroy me,
Being so loud and noisy when my head’s so very sore?
Why, you black and stripey bastard! Don’t you know that I got plastered
And last night, while I was wasted, drank this bottle of Lenor?”
                                    Quoth the Badger, “Shut yer maw.”

“Why don’t you quit your crying? Yes, you’re sick, and maybe dying –
It’s your own fault you are lying here upon the kitchen floor!
What the hell did you expect, pouring that shit down yer neck?”
Thus the Badger did reflect, oozing hate from every pore.
                                    I continued; I implored

“O Badger, I’ve been thinking – is this about my drinking?
Are you here to give an inkling I should think about a cure?
Please, Badger, say this visit is to rouse my drunken spirit!
The booze, O I can quit it! Help me, Badger I implore!
                                    Quoth the Badger, “Don’t be sure.”

“Did I neglect to mention that this ain’t an intervention,
Just a sign of the dementia in the brain that you forswore?
No way I’m here beside ya to help you out or guide ya,
But rather to deride ya: you’re a moron, to be sure!”
                                    Quoth the Badger with a roar.

Now we lie in the pre-dawn, heavy blinds and curtains drawn
And the Badger with a yawn, rests his head and starts to snore.
Yet the pounding in my skull says for him there’ll be no cull –
As my senses start to dull, I know it’s me that is no more.
                                    Thanks to drinking damned Lenor.

And the Badger still is napping – despite the tapping – still is napping,
(And occasionally crapping) on the clammy kitchen floor.
As my eyes begin to close, I feel him drooling on my toes;
For me, there’s no more shows, no returning, no encore…
                                    And I’ll go drinking nevermore.

1 comment:

  1. This is an excellent poem. Just a heads up to let you know that I've nominated you for Liebster Blog Award. What Larks!