Fill What Is Empty, Empty What Is

Wracked With A Hangover I Do My Muttering Over A Black Velvet, A Union Of Champagne And Stout. Don't Be Swindled Into Believing There's Any Cure For A Hangover. I've Tried Them All: Iced Tomatoes, Hot Clam Juice, Brandy Peaches. Like The Common Cold It Defies Solution. Time Alone Can Stay It. The Hair Of The Dog? That Way Lies Folly. It's As Logical As Trying To Put Out A Fire With Applications Of Kerosene.

It's Unlikely I'll Ever Submit To A Psychiatrist's Couch. I Don't Want Some Stranger Prowling Around Through My Psyche, Monkeying With My Id. I Don't Need An Analyst To Tell Me That I Have Never Had Any Sense Of Security. Who Has?

Don't Think This Has Taught Me A Lesson !

Fill What Is Empty, Empty What Is Full, And Scratch Where It Itches.

In My Lifetime I've Been To Bed With Men, Women, And Odd Pieces Of Furniture.