Mr Gregarious

The hours like molasses drip
Saliva clings to dry parched lips
Eyes stare on into a glaze
Brain thinks back to better days.

Hangover has coloured the room
A deathly grey airtight tomb
Window frames a slate blank sky
A hearse insists on passing by.

Body rigid on the bed,
Thoughts rage through a pounding head,
You have a feeling and it’s strong,
Last night you did something wrong.

A memory you thought you’d blocked,
A force that cannot be stopped,
Genie in a bottle, locked,
Bursts forth as the cork is popped.

Oh! Yes! Mr Gregarious!
He leaps on a table, his footings precarious
Falls to the floor bares all his hairy ass
Demanding to know ‘Was that you who stared at us?!

Mr Gregarious will sleep with your mother
Fight with your father and rob from your brother
Announce to the world he’s your secret lover
Let shit hit the fan and then run for cover.

Mr Gregarious downs three pints of Gin
And seventeen whiskeys before blindness sets in
‘I don’t need my eyes anyway,’ he says with a grin,
‘I’ve seen you before and you’re as ugly as sin!’

Mr Gregarious thunders through town
His braces snap off, his trousers fall down
‘The man is a menace!’ said the mayor with a frown
‘If he were a dog we’d have him put down.’

Mr Gregarious lacks morale fibre
His long hairy limbs are like that of a spider
Keep an eye on your daughter when he sits beside her
And decline the offers of homemade cider.

Mr Gregarious fooking loves life
He fooking loves fucking especially your wife.
In a cheap B & B on the outskirts of Fife
Slaps and tickles your trouble and strife.

Mr Gregarious libido increased
Ferocious, feral, sexual beast
Prowling the streets in search of release
Rips at your clothes, on flesh he feasts.

Mr Gregarious, intentions suspicious
Has eaten all of your tropical fishes
Is sick in your sink and into your dishes
‘My God!’ He yells, ‘Those chips were delicious!’

Off-licence owners worldwide cower
As Mr Gregarious starts losing power
Stares into the distance and says with a glower
‘They stop serving drinks in less than an hour!’

But all good things must run their course,
Even this near unstoppable force,
Whose booze consumption could rival a Norse,
Must cease when he’s depleted his source.

And all that is left within his wake,
Is a feeling of guilt a slow dull ache,
As it’s not a case of ‘if’ but ‘when?’
‘Cos you know you’ll let him out again.