Pint Pot

A brief beize, over-slated, evening,
Of eight ball pool, but none sinking:
‘My eyes not in,’ a lame excuse;
So the next pint is put to use:

I need that ale-tippled judgement,
To relieve me from re-worked rent:
Traces of the paid-day’s designs,
In CAD-fagged furrows, sunk brow-lines.

Five decades worth of quick-inked pens,
Aligned to re-drafted dull drawings;
To delete my damn commissions,
I pot daily-versed-admissions.

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