by Michael Eyre
We’re on a binge,
brace for the cringe–
it’s the On-it-till-we-vomit-hen-do.
We’ll drink till it hurts
in pink T-shirts
that scream ON-IT-TILL-WE-VOMIT-HEN-DO.
Kiss-me-quick hats,
covered in tatts–
hail the On-it-till-we-vomit-hen-do.
We’ll twerk our buns,
lock up your sons–
from the On-it-till-we-vomit-hen-do.
Trout pout injection,
bronzed to perfection–
at the On-it-till-we-vomit-hen-do.
Shot after shot,
pre-tying the knot–
it’s the On-it-till-we-vomit-hen-do.
Michael Eyre (he/him) writes poetry. A BREW Poetry Award Honoree, he has been published in numerous literary magazines and highly commended in poetry competitions. Based in the UK, he is a graduate of Liverpool University and the University of Central Lancashire.