I've never had a hangover because I've never gotten very drunk. That's why this sonnet is written in the second-person. I'm of the "write what you assume" school.
You wake upon a carpet soaked in wine
to feel the walls around you stretch and shrink
and press against the pressure on your spine,
unbed yourself as tucked under by drink.
Unwind the vice that clamps around the head
and loose the screw that tightens at the jaw.
You twist the tendons, heavy as a tread,
and strip the bolts that drive into your maw.
You wobble, wisen upright with a yawn
and warble, crooning, swooning to the floor
and crumble on the carpet with a coo.
Your cogs are locked; your curtains let the dawn
abound, secured unfirmly as the door,
as bright and strident skewers murder you.
And in the spirit of avoiding hangovers, make sure you stay well-hydrated. The wetter the water, the better. I know because I'm a water connoisseur. Very picky.
He offers me a glass of wat-
er. "Is it wet enough for you?"
"It's wetter than a river ot-
ter rolling in the morning dew."
He offers me a glass of wat-
er. "Is it wet enough for you?"
"This water's dry as liquid cot-
ton sifted through a burning shoe."
He offers me a glass of wat-
er from the common well's abyss.
"This water looks as red as Trot-
sky's eye and tastes like Stalin's piss."
You wake upon a carpet soaked in wine
to feel the walls around you stretch and shrink
and press against the pressure on your spine,
unbed yourself as tucked under by drink.
Unwind the vice that clamps around the head
and loose the screw that tightens at the jaw.
You twist the tendons, heavy as a tread,
and strip the bolts that drive into your maw.
You wobble, wisen upright with a yawn
and warble, crooning, swooning to the floor
and crumble on the carpet with a coo.
Your cogs are locked; your curtains let the dawn
abound, secured unfirmly as the door,
as bright and strident skewers murder you.
And in the spirit of avoiding hangovers, make sure you stay well-hydrated. The wetter the water, the better. I know because I'm a water connoisseur. Very picky.
He offers me a glass of wat-
er. "Is it wet enough for you?"
"It's wetter than a river ot-
ter rolling in the morning dew."
He offers me a glass of wat-
er. "Is it wet enough for you?"
"This water's dry as liquid cot-
ton sifted through a burning shoe."
He offers me a glass of wat-
er from the common well's abyss.
"This water looks as red as Trot-
sky's eye and tastes like Stalin's piss."