One Over the Eight

I have spent many nights
in Oscar's gutter, but a
cloud -or two- obscured
the stars. A lifted, shifted
head would lay me low
in hangover street pain, again.
The company was fine
and more than handy; Sandy
or Rita and memorably Dave,
who came dressed as Vesta's
coarser sister. More sheets
to the wayward wind and sinned
against more than singing
maudlin tin-pan-Sally-from-the-alley
drunkards' songs to policemen.