fumbling, faltering

How did you know I’d give my heart gladly. It’s no good for me and it’s no good for you, ’cause she’s playing all night. The depth of the alcohol ocean had gone beyond the swimming skills of youth rendering too many performances too weak to take seriously, ruining every attempt at a challenging run, bringing in the chanting bar room bellows into appropriate fashions, late night hollers for a rush. If you get hurt by the little things I say. By this time a few found it hard to stand, leaning, fumbling, faltering, lurching. Verb, that’s what’s happening.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs

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About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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