Hangover

A ceiling that’s triangular,
photographs that move.
A light that burns a cornea,
a tongue that’s furry smooth.

Eyelids doing press-ups,
limbs that feel like lead.
A kettle whistling somewhere,
in the confines of my head.

Someone screams in atom cracking
decibels, designed,
to make ‘Good morning!’ just explode
and shred my addled mind.

Spying two life-saving pills,
that sit beside a cup;
they’d help, if I could still my hand,
to pick the buggers up.

I swear, I’ll never drink again;
that beer is just a pest….
And anyway, we all know that,
I love the Guinness best.

*Groaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan*