One Too Many

I often wonder what it would be like

to raise a child on bourbon alone.

Forsaking the nipple,

With its preconceived human experience,

Sinister,

In it’s ploy to create like-mindedness,

Oneness,

Conformity.

The breast is a goddamm communist,

Red in every aspect of it’s productivity,

Man doesn’t need to blacklist the human body

To uncover it’s allegiances.

To raise a child on bourbon alone.

It seems natural anyway,

If you think about it,

The bourbon barrel is a womb,

Dark and damp,

The wooden uterus lined

With all sorts of

Mystical growth,

And magical processes,

The corn and mash gestating to

Form new life,

Too supernatural in nature

To fully comprehend.

God made bourbon same as He made women.

Seems right anyway.

It could be the greatest

advance in medicine to

ever occur.

Children reared on the bottle,

Not the plastic kind,

Of course,

It could turn the universe

Right side up.

Hell, we could raise a generation of

Boys and girls with

Morals and fortitude,

And Sainthood in their bones.

To raise a child on Bourbon alone.

It seems so simple now,

The antidote to all sickness,

The solution to all evil,

The salvation of ----

I know.

I know, Lucille, I can hear you!

Guess I’ll put this lowball down,

Take out the trash,

And wonder on it some more.