What?

Spell-check courtesy of sober me the next morning.

As I pen this Poem,
I'm politely plastered
told my friends to pass over to me,
a hand held fog machine.
Broken bones,
shattered sheafs of skin,
bundled round a disgruntled diablo,
standing in the grotto,
where Tantalus wont be eating.
But hell,
neither will I really.