Camping is nothing but a change of scenery
and plenty of booze.
I’ll only go if I’m piss drunk
because I sleep better in my bed.
I’d rather be at the Four Seasons,
even though I hate swanky types and wish
I was a mechanic.
But I like warm showers and tennis,
and I won’t go hiking in the morning.
I’ll be too hungover to think, too cold—
and if you think I won’t be,
Warm whiskey soaks on
grieving breath, cold as nerves.
And you can shove your granola.