Figure t out yourselves.

Morning Glory

Kicked aside last night detritus
In search for analgesic.
The beer was too weak
And I just belched the scotch
But it was looking good again,
While the fingers jittered
Over the page.
Thank God for ball points!
No left handed ink
Running up my sleeve
And smudging the words.
Never did master the art
Of writing backwards from the top.
Sr. Claire never had Sinestre
People in her class.
So I learned to
Knuckle down.
She ruled. Smartly.
But now the headache comes
And the half-remembered vision;
And, somewhere, in the heap of clothes
Is a scrap of paper.
No receipt, no unknown name
Or phone.
Four lines of undecipherable brilliance
With three words to chase.
Now it’s worth
Getting out of bed.