Wreck

The bedroom's a wreck, let's be clear, Socks like seaweed, pizza smear, A half-drunk mug of cold tea, Where the remote's gone to be. The floor's a foggy, confused sea Of comics, a shoe, and a spilled frappe, While the curtains hang low, slightly askew, Like a sail after a gale's escape. No lifeboats needed, no SOS flare, Just the bloke who resides there, Surveying the charming debris, Grinning at his own spree. For sometimes the best nights, you see, Leave lovely wreckage behind, And cheers to the wreck, bold and free— The mess that reminds you you've lived, not just timed.