St. Francis on Absinthe

When I was in London I tried Absinthe.
It tasted like licorice ass dipped in balls,
but balls is what I tripped.
I thought I was a man who I assume had
great big balls, but a bigger heart–St. Francis of Assisi.
I felt his soul merge with mine
and I was his reincarnation
with licorice breath to speak from The Lord.

Being St. Francis is a lot work though.
I had to listen to everyone
and give them all my attention,
and other drunk people are
really hard to listen too,
or to seek to understand,
or even worse–to love.

But I found love, as I told
a fellow exchange student
who looked like the Clueless
Years of Brittany Murphy
that she was my soul mate and I was St. Francis.
She seemed pleased to hear that,
but then I blacked out for a little bit.

When I came too,
I felt no Spiritual Enlightenment
nor any sign I got laid.
Just a throbbing mark on my forehead like
I used to get at mass on Christmas–
just it was from the pavement instead of a priest.
I stood up wanting to touch more souls,
but then I threw up and St. Francis left me body.


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