Spilling Margharittas

Splish, splash the punch goes
Bloody red stains in the botton of the glasss
Cynics yell when the olive dances
Couldn't tell why the stirrer shook out the grime
The bittersweet misery swallowed in whole
The feet began to talk a language of their own
There's only so much one can say or do
When the glass tips over and you say, 'Cheers to you.'
It's a toast to the lines in between
Pack a punch, it hits where it hurts the most
It’s never a blast,
The coyote ugly cocktail of words