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Breakfast of champions

Today, I sat down to write,
with a cup full of coffee by my side
Irish
But the words wouldn't flow
So I began wondering
how wonderful it would be,
If one could buy words for a pirce
like the cheap liquor I buy
at the cheap bar
where the bartender tenders my poison
in a glass bottle wrapped in a dark cover
in exchange for some rupees
without an extra word uttered between us.
I return to my damp, dreary room
crack open the bottle,
pour out three fingers of dark liquid
into my favorite coffee cup
and top it off with freshly brewed coffee.
On the table, it's set,
next to last night's incomplete work.
Knuckles cracked,
nib licked.
And as I ponder,
the words begin to fill up the pages,
as effortlessly as the warm liquid filling up my belly.
So I write some more
I drink some more
merrily,
until the words begin to choke again

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