Poem of the Week....(Hic)

We're sorry, we will never do this again. We have lots 'o poetry waiting in the wings to be accepted, but simply haven't had the time to do so, because, you know, we have more important things to do. Coincidentally, it was, in fact, Editrice Liz's birthday this week, and the weekly editrice rendezvous got a little....rowdy.

So, this is our sorry excuse for running out of Poems of the Week. We return to our regularly scheduled program next week. And we bet you can't wait until we do. Because we might be extremely talented legal young ladies, but not at the art of writing drunken poetry. There's a definite point, as you can tell from our handwriting and thought process, where things began to spiral out of hand (BEES! BUBBLES!), but for most of the first stanza we can explain ourselves. We think. Don't test us, though.


Ode to Drinking

by your esteemed and supremely toasted Editrices

O booze, you make
me hear 180 oboes playing
in my head for no good reason.
I could be a man if I wanted to.
We are harbingers
of slimy worms and slippery cherries
and cantaloupe squirms through our fingers
We will be delicious tomorrow on hamburgers.

Scummy scumbag of a bubble pipe,
we have bubbles and nothing can go wrong
a chorus of well-trained bees vomit bubbles.