The Beer seems flat when your Ipod is dead

Tonight:
I shall Think, Drink, and Write till I fall over.

A Hot summer night:
No breeze, no air, no moon overhead to fill my pen with ink.

I see my old city
I sip my vodka wings and disappear.
Just a poor writer among the rich.

To be at the river
Is where I desire to be.
Nothing hindering me,
But pages to fill and a drunk and stumbling walk home up a winding rocky hill.

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