Don't ask me how it's going - it's only been one week.
Truth is, it's bloody hard and I'm feeling very weak.
Friday night was hardest but even Monday wasn't great,
And now that it's the weekend, I'm thinking of my mate.
Not the one dressed to the nines and heading to the Ritz,
Who'll later neck Dom Perignon and get right off her titz.
Nor the one that's laden down with Cristal, Cru and Boli,
White wine, red wine, and rose, sitting in her trolley.
Not even the one that's sat at home with an ice cold G&T,
No, I'm on about my new mate (that now sits inside of me).
An unexpected diagnosis - and enough to introduce,
a new complaint beside - for withdrawal's now been induced.
My mate the stomach ulcer, laying dormant most the time,
Is peptic, septic, stuck inside and hanging with my chyme.
My belly bloated, silently searing soon will take its toll.
Apparently heals much quicker, if one abstains from alcohol.
The wretched mare of all of this is the ironic fated twist,
Of a further ugly symptom now sat hanging in the midst.
A nausea so gnawing it's a morning after at its worst,
Wouldn't it just be easier to drink the bloody booze first?
No, it wouldn't, don't be daft, my ulcer needs to heal.
I'll lay off three bottles every week, it's not such a massive deal.
Oh but when the kids are maddening, and life's minus all its charm.
Of course today's habitual lifestyle means we pour a glass of calm.
So there you have it, after only one week, I'm struggling, yes I am.
I'm not liking the seriousness of redressing my evening plan.
But one week in is one week down and so upward I do aim,
My mate the stomach ulcer, please reduce in size and pain.