Friday Afternoon

Tick, tick, tick, tock,
I sit here staring at the clock.
Friday afternoon drags,
a few hours til hope.

Off to the waterhole I'll go,
the thought helps me cope.
I'll chat and tell tall stories,
buddies will laugh.
Bar maids will flirt,
while wearing tight skirts.

When I'm happy and a bit stewed,
I'll call and try not to be lewd.
With a giggle you'll say,
"You sound a bit tipsy".
"Are you coming over to fix me?"

In a flash,
dial an Uber.
Sounds of whip cracking,
buddies laughing like goobers.
They have their fun at my expense.
I smile,
 "enjoy stroking it by yourselves."
My only self-defense.

In your arms,
I shake off the work funk.
I lap from your fountain,
and sip from twin taps.
For two and a half days,
your nectar keeps me happily drunk.

Now only three hours to go.
Faster time,
 I cannot make go.