The Unsung Cry of the Barfly

I don't know how nor why I found myself here

drawn to the fumes of the atmosphere,

like they could, somehow, enter me and cloud my mind.

As would the alcohol.

Irony, Irony, you that do not seem to stop haunting me, tell me where tonight might take me.

I was still, as how you left me, just another broken and bruised has been.

Almost too drunk to hold the pen.

Irony, Irony, ironing the asperities of my doubts.

I don't think I had anything to lose at this point.