TUESDAY MORNING COMING DOWN

Well, I woke up Tuesday morning, and had a nasty stinging pain, in my head,
I'd drank the night away doing pony keg stands and smoking American Spirits, in my bed.

I looked around the Hilton and saw the remnants of a weekend with great friends,
Wondering what happened to Friday and why God made Monday come to an end.

I gathered my bag and stumbled out onto the elevator, a lonely drunk looking for a smile,
couldn't help but remember a dancing Bears tailgate and aimless walking on the Magnificent Mile.

As each floor descended, a weekend memory passed,
as I saw Michael laugh-humping Ashley, and felt angry Kevin, putting his foot into my ass.

As I walked into the foyer, alone and in stench,
I longed for Clint's giddy laugh and saw Miller mouth-spray us into a drench.

The El was no place to be a man in solitude,
where I could still feel Faust's charm, and wanted to hug Lee and say, `Hey, Sorry dude'.

I rounded the corner to my home, stopping suddenly, when I thought I saw one of my brethren,
sadly laughing to myself, knowing that I was the lone remaining member, of what had been a mighty Eleven.

I sat in my bed early that night, mourning the pain of the Tuesday evacuees,
and knew what we have is special, what we have here, as the mighty ICs.

Maybe tomorrow will be better, but here on Wednesday I still mope around,
from that empty, hollow feeling, of Tuesday Morning Coming Down.