Poetry: A Toast To Tempers

Don’t call me at night
I love a good sleep.
Don’t even try to sleep with me
I hate stained bedsheets.
I know I’m not your light,
not anymore for you to keep.
Just let me be free,
and eat what I like, like it’s a treat.
I am not your beer
I’m too much of a bear,
Don’t go close to calling me my dear.
It’s those sort of things I don’t like to hear.
I should have said all these over the wine,
maybe when I was still sitting somewhere with that lady in white.
I should have known this journey had too much vines,
then pick up a glass and make merriment with a fight.

Ruddapoet

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