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.
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