from Peter John

Archive for the ‘Addiction’ Category

Tequila, Sheila


Tequila, Sheila
by Peter John

Pour me a shot of tequila, Sheila,
Draw me a draft of beer.
It’s getting late,
But the music’s great,
And I like drinking here.
I don’t care if it’s after ten
And I get up at four.
One more shot’ll drag me home.
I can pass out on the floor.

Pour me another gin and tonic.
Pop me a couple of Buds.
I’d like to wade
In the mist I’ve made
And swim in the golden suds.
Lost on a foggy sunset road
I seek a thirsting soul
Drinking misery I don’t know,
Swallowing sorrow whole.

Another shot,
Another bottle,
A filtered quart of my blood —
Another cocktail,
I’ll trade a meal
For a swallow of Tennessee Mud!

Pour me another neon headache,
Congas announcing the dawn.
My pocket’s bled,
And my pounding head
Is taking the morning on.
Bloodshot images steaming thick,
The mirror hears me pray.
Wake me up with one more shot
So I can stagger away.
Hey! Pour me a shot of tequila, Sheila,
Another shot and I’ll stay.

(c) 1991 by Peter John Stone All Rights Reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

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The Cross I Carry


The Cross I Carry
By Peter John

I’m not worthy of the cross I carry
But I carry it anyway.
I wear it with the weight of wood
Anchored on bone
By a nail I won’t let fall away
Long as I can feel its loss.
So I still carry it,
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.

I wear mine tattooed on an arm
Of bronze, muscle, and pain —
Drawn from an angry road,
Leather, and steel —
On a one way run
That once begun
Takes  a miracle to leave undone.
But rage won’t let the miracle take the wheel

I’m not worthy of the cross I carry
But I carry it anyway.
I wear it with the weight of wood
Anchored on bone
By a nail I won’t let fall away
Long as I can feel its loss.
So I still carry it,
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.

I eat my fill. I stake all my claims
And claim all of my due,
Confident the poor and weak
Reap what they sow.
Through a cross they made
With a surgeon’s blade
Beats an offering beyond all trade,
And pride denies my gratitude
Room to grow.

But I’ve been blessed!
I’ve been blessed —
Though God knows I don’t deserve it —
Blessed in spite of each old curse
I entertain with each new dawn,
When I choose my daily dues
With loaded dice each losing toss.
Although I carry it, I know
I’m not worthy of The Cross

I bear mine in bottles of dreams
I drain empty and stale,
Or any battle I fight
When I should flee.
For my own strength fails
Facing up at tales
Of a sturdier Cross than the sharpest nails,
No cross I carry, but The Cross
That’s carried for me.

I’m not worthy of the cross I carry
But I carry it anyway.
I wear it with the weight of wood
Anchored on bone
By a nail I won’t let fall away
Long as I can feel its loss.
So I still carry it,
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.
Yes, I still carry it
But I’m not worthy of The Cross.

(c) 2009 by Peter John Stone – All Rights Reserved. No use is authorized without permission from author, but the author offers reasonable terms, and entertains any proposals.

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