Scott Jamison

Walt Whitman is watching me piss,

And I am that far gone that for a split

Second I consider stealing him,

Fumbling him out of his glass-trap

And folding him into my pocket

Like a map.

It all started in a kitchen cupboard,

With the very American misconception

That Uisce Bethad flows through my veins

And that my dry lips’ reception

Would be like a drought’s for rain.

I pay for my lies

As whisky flows out of me,

Taking its damn sweet time

An up yours to my drunk knees.

Zipped and buttoned, I finish up

And walk home, a beery parade float,

Telling MM Morrison

That I sympathize with cheating politicians

And that without you

I am alone.