It's called "Ode to Hangovers."
Hangover, you drag me into the yard.
Oh, I should tell you that I used to live in Indiana
and I had very big, great yard.
One of the things that I would do when--
on the one occasion I had a hangover,
was start as a way of just whatever
it is one does to try to accomplish something
when one feels like hell.
So I always sort of identify yard-work with being hungover
and I identify hangovers with yard-work.
This isn't that interesting an idea, is it?
[LAUGHTER]
Moving on, "Ode to Hangover."
You got to stay the course, you know,
when you're doing something like this.
It [INAUDIBLE] feels like a bad idea.
[LAUGHTER]
You can only hope.
You can only hope that time goes by.
Hangover, you drive me into the yard
to dig holes as a way of working through you,
as one might work through a sorry childhood
by writing the forbidden amusement park rides
as a grown-up until puking.
Alas, I feel like something spit out by a duck,
a duck other ducks are ashamed of.
When I only tried to protect myself by projecting myself
on hilarity's big screen at the party where
one nitwit reminisced about the $0.39 a pound chicken
from his youth.
And another said, don't go to Italy in June.
No one goes in June.
Protect myself from boring advice.
From the boring past and boring present, at the expense
of an unnauseating future, now.
But look at these newly-socketed lilacs.
Without you, hangover, they would still
be trapped in their buckets.
And not become the opposite of vomit
just as you, hangover, are the opposite of orgasm.
Certainly you go on too long and, in your grip,
one thinks, how to have you never again.
Whereas orgasm lasts too short, some seconds and immediately
one plots to repeat her.
After her, I could eat a car, but here's a pineapple clam
pizza and Chinese milkshakes.
Yum.
But hangover, you make me aspire to a saltine.
Both of you need to lie down.
One with a cool rag across the brow, shutters drawn.
The other, in a soft jungle gym.
Yahoo.
This puzzle has 15,000 solutions.
Here's one called Rocking Horse.
And how about Sunshine in the Monkey Tree.
Chug, chug, goes the arriving train.
Those on the platform toss their hats and scarves and cheer,
the president comes out the caboose to declare,
the war is over.
Corks popping, people mashing people,
knocking over melon stands, ripping millenniums of bodices.
Hangover, rest now.
You'll have lots to do later inspiring abstemious
philosophies and menial tasks that, too, contribute
to the beauty of this world.