Real Question of a Three Day Hangover

My hangover was in it's third day and I can't cook
the longest hangover in history grumps son
as he knives chicken breasts
into the tiny pieces he loves
not careless chunks I cut
after relentless years of sating daily hunger

my brain stops on my three day hangover
number one daughter drives me to shop
new to town she forgets the way and so do I
why am I doing all the things
my mother told me not to?
I ask as I wave goodbye
in my socks in the rain.

on the third day of my hangover
words are dead rats from my mouth
long distance daughter scolds
she should be the one going to pub poetry
being deafened by boy bands

The band members

milk fed virgins
soft in obscure message T shirts

and jeans ironed by mum
their equipment unscathed
straight from dad’s well swept garage.

The real question is:

Where are the slim hipped
working class boys
lean as pack wolves
willing to share

at the back of the pub
bulges which strained

in their grease stained jeans
with whoever dared?