Tri-Factor of Failure

I sight a storm, a torrid tempest of all that natural harm can spin

I walk into it, gun upon my head and fresh bottle full

Trigger pulled, bottle adds to the empties I have piled a mountain high

But alas the joke has been heard, no end does meet this mortals attempt of worth

The bullet faulted, the torrid tearing of the wind did merely ruffle hair

The bottle only cause for a hangover sent from hell

I hath survived and now do ready myself for the next trial I must endure

And this piece even fails to rhyme!


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