Drunk

In the dim‑lit pub, the amber glow
clings to the worn‑in oak,
where laughter rolls like a barrel’s roll
and every voice is hoarse.

A pint of bitter, frothy‑topped,
slips down the throat, warm and keen,
while the world outside grows hazy‑soft,
as thoughts begin to lean.

Cheers are sung in off‑key chorus,
hands clink, glasses sigh,
the night unfurls a woolly blur,
and reason takes a lie.

Morning comes with cotton‑mouth,
a head that throbs like a drum,
yet memories of the night before
still sparkle – drunk, but hum.