Intoxicated Ice

First fresh water, then hard ice,
A transition, from colorless to white
I sit there, waiting from morning to night,
Suddenly, I'm plopped into a bucket of ice

Swish, I go now 1, 2, 3
Into that tall glass of Martini,
The vodka sears and hisses around me,
I bubble, I fizzle, there's little left to see.



Poetry by muriel
Read 431 times
Written on 2009-06-06 at 19:05

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