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!