For lack of a better wordó
The sour aftermath of a night ill-defined,
With its fragments strewn about your brain
Like crumpled cans on linoleum tiles,
Where a warm orange glow engulfed the whole universe,
And has forsaken you by six am,
Chilled and distended.
The aftermath of hilarity
Reeks heavily from vocal chords,
Giving way to nausea
Upon the threshold of first period.