There's a man who lives at the bottom of the bottle
or so my brother would tell me,
a Muse that led men to a path of sin.
My sister would sit on the Comfy Couch™,
Heart pounding like a kick drum,
Until she dried out on the pleather.
Hemingway shotgun gla**
splattered whiskey on my throat's wall,
waiting for the lights to end,
while I keep my heels on.