Luigi

Toad

The whiskey burns, but I let it roll in my mouth for a while as I stare into my glass, trying to keep my eyes off the stage.  I'm making this drink last.  The whiskey still burns my cracked lips, stings like needles as it washes over my bleeding gums.  Doesn't matter.  I'm just sick of tasting my own blood lately.  I been beat up every time I turn around, and there ain't a doctor around that can fix what's wrong with me.