This is why I should never write sober.

Drag yourself to this table again
And talk awhile with me
Tell me what your poison is
Share a glass or three

The dregs of disillusionment
Or heartache, pure and distilled
Bitterness flowing straight from the tap
We will surely drink our fill

I wish that I had a gift to bring
Something not threadbare and spent
These insubstantial words leave us
With a bellyfull of discontent

And I know you know all the stories
The script, it is crumpled and stained
We will speak our lines, and shake our heads
And ask ourselves what has been gained