But For That Pint

Was the feeling there before the drink,say I,
Who washes his misery with a pint,
Pulled so he can get out of his house,
And sit with idle company?

And when the pint goes down,
Will the hate go with it,
That hate of which I´d never state,
But for this pint of black?

Charging the prices beyond my care,
Dare I spend more than I shouldn´t,
On this glass filled meal,
Killing the night amore wasted hence.

Another tap is pulled,
Here a glass covers my mouth,
As I shout obscenities at myself,
Purposefully killing time instead of killing myself.

Coin toss covers,
As I blather myself for that first final,
And a smoke in the cold,
Before I walk myself home.

Eoghan Lyng is an Irish man, who has written from Cork, Madrid and Prague. Currently residing in Glasgow, Lyng continues to refine his work. Aided with the ability to write in English and Gaeilge, examples of his work have been published in Vada Magazine, From The LightHouse, An Gael-IrisLeabhar Idirnaisiúnta and his eponymous wordpress account.