Bruises color limbs in the heat.
I’m ok Mama says,
She says it’s nothing.
Everything is tidy. Everything is tidy.
Barefoot and battered,
She wobbles to pick up broken dishes.
Oh, Alcohol – Oh, Alcohol
A hymn to bottled idols.
Her face is a southern peach
Ballooned and blemished.
You can’t pick the rotten ones
She would say at the supermarket.
Daddy’s friends are over –
I can smell their laughter,
Oh, Alcohol – Oh, Alcohol
Timeless friends and television.
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