The Empty glass doth mock me from its shelf —
I can’t believe I drank it all myself.
But that was nigh a month ago today,
And yet upon the shelf the glass didn’t stay.
The lime, once tart and fresh and so alive
with flavor, now is dried like an old chive.
That such Gin, which to me was mother’s milk,
Which mixed with Tonic was of no such ilk
As sweeter drinks which made me cringe and cry,
And with that lime, to drink it was to die
And go to heaven, that such drink in time
Could be yet so gross, a hard stuck dusty lime.
So now it sits and mocks me till I’m sickly,
Oh why did I not clean the glass more quickly?