Drunk Writers and Dead Presidents

[J Hillenburg]

Drunk Writers and Dead Presidents



Drunk writers and dead presidents,

tarnished golden harmonicas lying in the rain,

empty bottles half-covered in gravel and mud,

footprints trailing off into the underbrush and forgotten,

smiling, happy children, laughing days, golden boys,

pretty women, circles of friends grinning, whispering,

and suddenly everything next to you makes sense,

and I feel I should put my faith in chance and accidents,

but drunk writers and dead presidents

offer my only examples, and set my precedents.


Drunk writers and dead presidents,

hey, man, you make your own destiny, I don’t believe in accidents.

and, yeah, I know I am drinking too much,

however, give me a little time and I can drink more.

and hey, you’re not looking too good yourself,

time hasn’t been kind to either of us.

times have changed, and the old crowd is just getting old, I know.

I hear you are in love again, and, yes, I hope to meet him soon,

and no, I’m all right, really, you see

I was thinking about how

with a talent for failure, and habit of dissidence,

I go crazy at the mention of drunk writers and dead presidents.


Drunk writers and dead presidents.

They knock at my door at three in the morning because they need an audience.

and, yes, I know he is gone, and I know it happened quickly,

and perhaps it will happen to me soon enough.

I dream in the straw of a love knowing no end,

of music without rhythm, colors refusing to blend,

and I will hold you until all doubt is removed,

and what was once only imagined is completely proved.

oh, and you know my love is without conditions or incidents,

or any drunk writers and dead presidents.