I’ve had it with sad men,
spare me from the Bukowski’s of this world.
The ones who love only the taste of their own misery.
If whiskey was a woman they would fuck only her,
and still sigh their way to an early grave.
Give me bitter women instead,
the Dorothy Parker’s who make light of suicide and heartbreak,
and still have enough breath to tell you to go fuck yourself.
If whiskey was a man they would drain him dry then order champagne,
marvelling at how the night stretches on.
I vow to never fuck another sad man as long as I breathe,
I will not extend the same promise to the bitter women.