The Disease

The Disease

When Mette a awoke from her morning rest
(For night before four was no sleeping time)
She poured out a glass of some kind of drink.
What kind? Didn’t matter, her throat had felt dry.
And she grabbed the last pop-tart, eating it cold,
But when going to dress, she tried to look nice.

Mette was not the personable image of nice:
For even after a suitable rest
She kept a hard face, her demeanor cold,
As her bosses goal was to waste her time
Dabbing the chins and getting the clothes dry
Of the tipsy clients that spilled their drinks.

The customer got everything, except for good drinks
The beer her boss sold, it wasn’t that nice
No better than the gin drunk when the town was dry.
She’d start a bottle, then leave backwash and the rest
For irksome men who’d waste her time.
Demanding to know why their beer wasn’t cold.

Why did they want bad beer not warm, but cold?
She hated how Americans couldn’t drink,
But the whole rant could wait for another time.
This night, she’d go out to somewhere somewhat nice,
Where the ale wouldn’t put her to a final rest.
Her throat was already feeling dry.

At end of the night, her throat was not dry
(Just took enough booze to make her feel cold).
Her body demanded she get a good rest,
Before the brain begged for another drink
Even as her eyes found sunrise was not very nice.
The sunrise came at only the bad times.

She woke up at 4, and right around that time
She went into the kitchen, throat again dry.
The recovery beer, to cure her hangover, felt nice,
But still she was feeling a hallowing cold.
This reparationsbajer, it was not the best drink,
And she felt it was time, again, to rest.

Near the end of her time, Mette would feel a cold.
Her throat would be dry, and she’d take a drink.
And it would feel nice, as she’d embrace the last rest.


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