I was vexed ’cause I was down to el peso
Final. . .no lunch and no sex with a girl.
La moola falta; mi alma non alta
[I lack money; my spirits aren’t high]—
Booze yesterday and my head in a swirl.

Drunker than shite was I in the cantina;
Pooling in drool, off the bar stool I fell.
Back I would creep for un más margarita
Made with cheapest tequila in the well.

That night a vile, drunk, plowed boy I’d been,
Vile as West Wing drunk sans ken
(Once West Texas denizen),
Splashing and sharing
My drinks and oaths blaring.
Further—a piscina I made on the rug.

So in anger, the

Bartender barked, “Pal, your last margarita!”
Up came his hand. . .slapped me down to the floor.
He manhandled me and threw me out on the street,
Followed by this warning: “Come back here no more!”

Then, like a cow ruminating her silage,
I did something whose first syllable’s “chun.”
Many chunks raced through my mouth—I de-chowed fare. . .
Output of tacos as well as chow fun.

Out from my snack port, repast river ran;
Out came the courses I’d tried.
I ralphed a pork bun. . .
Had once comprised food fun—
Up it came, backed by
Carne deeply fried.

I hadn’t fasted. . .

And so I was down to my last el peso,
On the edge of being sin dinero.
Without el peso I could be called worthless
Because of gelt’s heft I would be bereft.
One thing’s sure: I can’t get a margarita
To sip and let dribble down my chin’s cleft.

I’d blasted sup like a grub tornado. . .
Drying out, doughless, and parched,
Bathing in sorrow
No Bulleit® to drown it;
Tonight I am cursed—
Off my money has marched.

Empty glass, here I

Am with no bills—that is, without el peso;
Even cheap rosé for me is a “no.”
My thirst is strong, and it lushes me onward;
I long to swill down fast, gin that is sloe.

Off to my right I see guys downing Rob Roys,
Up their arms heft fresh Manhattanesque pour.
Pounding down shooters, they won’t—I hope—catch me
As my fingers in their pockets explore.

Something is dreadfully wrong, for I feel
A deep girlie swale there inside.
I had been trying
To take away some cash. . .
I find a guy-null gash,
Though they look guy’d.

But my love for

Tequila is strong, so I don’t rise for ballin’
As my index finger cusps the cleft’s crest.
I’m primed to imbibe and so I can’t stifle
Need to steal from señoritas cross-dressed.

From out of nowhere fistina does pound me,
Hitting my cheek, and I reel, feel cross-eyed.
Pasted by a potent arm of this dyke sore. . .
One flit of clit really steamed sin-wood “guy.”
(To heed, dinero, tequila, goodbye.)

Y la oportunidad por el peso?
Es triste a decir: ella pasó.
Y yo me encuentro sobre el piso,
La lugar donde ella me puso
Y donde yo poso en el poso.

[And the chance to get el peso?
It’s sad to say: that’s passed.
And I find myself on the floor,
The location where she put me
And where I repose in the dregs.]