Morrissey in the Morning

Molly O'Neill

Stephen Patrick Morrissey takes his tea

every single day at eight-fifteen.

One teaspoon of milk, no sugar at all,

he stirs, licks the spoon, and stares at the wall.

Yet in his mind drone ever-grinding gears,

grey hair and trembling hands confirm his fears.

He thought his vow would bring him inner peace,

but solitude won't grant him sweet release.

Getting on alone, what was he thinking?

Celibacy can't stop him from drinking.

He's just as corrupted as any boy,

just older, sadder, void of simple joy.

And so he sits there, morose Morrissey,

adding a splash of whiskey to his tea.