Every single time
I see you with any
Sort of bottle in your
Hand, or shot glass,
Or margarita, I know
That later you will
Wobble through the
Crowd with concerned
Friends behind you,
Ruining their night,
And making a damn
Pathetic spectacle
Or your immaturity
And gross irresponsibility.
I would not care so much
about your flightiness
If it didn't effect every
Social function I find
Both of us attending:
Throw up.
Grow up.
Act like an adult.
With your head of air,
Why are you here?
And who invited you
Or your friends?
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