I’m drinking sangria with
ice
The taste is incredibly
nice
But fruit in my cup
Is clogging it up
So every sip needs to go
twice
Too lazy to go to the
store
I’m searching for munchies
galore
Like Old Mother Hubbard
It’s empty (my cupboard)
So sad for this poor
carnivore
I have to report back to
work
Open House just isn’t a
perk
It runs way too late
All that schmoozing I hate
In fact, it makes me
berserk
I’m eating some crackers
with wine
It’s making me feel oh-so
fine
The end of my day
Is still hours away
To my car I will make a
beeline
Okay with this poetry joke
Perhaps I am just blowing
smoke
Or maybe for real
It might be the deal
That sangria is going for
broke
