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22 May 2009

That Week In October

That week in October was sullen and dark
There's a sorry recluse and it's by Regent's Park
In a Georgian Hotel, not exactly exquisite
I'm drowning my sorrows for the length of my visit
I wake in the morning to my greatest of fears
The shade of my cheeks was from vodka and tears
I stand by the sink but I can't bear to face
The reflection before me, that fucking disgrace

I pause for a minute and perch on the bed
Fight back the vomit and cradle my head
Cuss at myself before pulling together
And stepping outside to the welcoming weather
The Baker Street station is bustling and busy
The dash for the train leaves me nauseous and dizzy
The journey itself is a silent affair
And I strive to avoid the compulsory stare

I drink to the thought that the day's nearly over
11am and I'm no longer sober
I cling to your neck as I moisten my lips
And I've made it my choice 'cause I can't get to grips

Silently slumping, the others outside
My forehead is thumping , I swallow my pride
The haze that descends is a keen substitution
But it proves at the end an unworthy solution
By late afternoon it has come to a close
The stench of the drink makes sure everyone knows
The onlookers wince as I shudder and swig
I'm soon well aware of the whole that I dig

A far cry from pleasant, I wouldn't advise it
A nasty old bastard, but everyone buys it

That week in October was sullen and dark