Happy hour

Everyone knows
You don’t need alcohol
To get drunk.

No vehement green
Glass, or
Littered bottle caps:

And anyway, before
The lifting of the glass
To the lips,

They are already inebriated
By that pint of
Smothered ego,
Or the job-on-the-rocks
An hour earlier.

Some hung up on an
18-year johnny walk-out
(Platinum label),
The boisterous loners cursing
Bloody Jane
Some other lucky chap
Pouring his friends champain.

Only the sober fool
Can call it
Happy hour.

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