Hell, I'm a Mason.
Should flip 'em all a secret sign
and drive to Jim's
fuss at him for being fat.
His daddy was my friend
almost the only dad I had;
now he's dead.
Sad,
yet more the reason I think to drink.

Oh well,
check the mail
and see if another Visa's come.
Maximum limits are lately
the only thing worth running-up.
Harriet's skirts got too much starch;
they're stiff when I'm not.
Besides,
credit cards can buy more bourbon.

My drinking's been running for a while too,
especially on Momma's side of the family.
Know what I'll do?
Hang a shingle by the office door—
"Drunk On Account of Heredity."