They howl I’ll sink, like a stone in mud. I raise my glass — my holy flood. Their eyes like knives, but hands like glue. I’m drunk Picasso, painting what they won’t do. I march half-blind, a circus king. They clutch the rails, afraid to swing. If I blow up, they shout “I knew!” But chase my footsteps when my chaos pulls ’em through. Their courage cracks like cheap-ass beer. They talk big storms — but never steer. I stagger on, a wrecking saint. They kneel behind me ’cause their backbone’s just paint. Raise your glass — watch cowards crawl. Drunk or not — I take it all.
