Agreed with my batchmate’s thought,
three, maybe four small pegs make one alert.
Left bar at peace, walked home along the street,
somehow, though shuffling, reached without a bruise.

Found my flat, though not so simple
to fit the key inside the stubborn lock.
A few tries failed, then click, success at last.
I entered home, a calm and saintly man.

Changed clothes in silence, went straight to my bed.
My wife then asked me, cool and unimpressed,
“Are you, perhaps, a little fuddled, dear?”
“Not me!” I said, though words came slurred and slow.

Why hide your cash in socks and watch beneath the bed?
Who knows? She asks too much, so tiring.
“Are you quite sure you didn’t drink?” she said.
“Who told you that I... drank…?”  snore follows