Pour a glass of decay
Aged beyond its prime
That when wafted
Coughs the disarray
Of its travel through time
Lacks in value, lost its valor
An era’s error taints the cup
Tastes of dollars
Soaked in squalor
Once slithered down
The hand to drink stays up
For what’s fermented
Is cemented
Of demented bourgeoise
Who kept the liquor
Shelved indefinitely
Aware of what would come to be
Ironic a teetotaler
Opened the bottle of Styx water
Extracted from a spiteful boot
Garnished with the seeds
From history’s rotten fruit
And so corrosion is in motion
As the potion drowns one in
Erosion of emotion
And the bubbling of monstrous sin
Hate made into a liquid
Wouldn’t be nearly as bitter
To that whose punches wound
The heart and mind
Rather than remain
A simple liver hitter
Once the drink is all gone
Hate is chased as an antidote
But alas the damage is done
All that’s left is to float and bloat
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