We Were Hemingways

Most of my friends are dead now,

We lived just like Hemingway;

Thinking all intellectuals smoked,

Living shit-faced every day.

We weren’t the products of parents,

Or the meanest grade school nun,

Trading instead, the theatrical hit,

For a thrill packed, short lived run.

None of my friends were famous,

Or even published when they died,

Yet each of them carried volumes

Detailing one hell of a ride.