And drag race the wrong way on a one way,

Their arms and legs suggesting street signs need to be revised,

Police agree their impaired motor skills provide more thrilling rides

And are so happy for them, especially as they take air over bumps

In the backwoods or hills. They issue no DUIs.

It’s a miracle they’re still alive, the way they’re swilling

Vodka, gin, whiskey and vermouth, their garage

A bottle collage, a private liquor store. Boozed

Up dipsomaniacs, reckless from Kalamazoo to Duluth,

No small miracle it is they find their way home at night.

What nerve they have to whoop out loud,

Honking at the cops, swerving with delight.

And spin them on their hips like hulahoops,

Whereupon they appear to be drowning.

Slack as kraken, they’re the type rumored to mutiny,

Hands daft as masts, blasted captains, dabbling damned Ahabs.

Their every revolution circumscribes Bermuda Triangles,

To hear them tell it, as they recline, dangling legs

Over ship railings like the skinniest of fishing poles.

Sinfully drinking flips and swinging eggnogs,

A coastguard of poltroons, mugs foaming with rumfustian,

Albatross tossed into the sea, unsold on omens,

Spies to the last man, rebelliously seeing right through

The veritable spyglass of piracy.