I once met a bloke at the local saloon,
Who danced on the table and howled at the moon.
He sipped on a lager, then chased it with gin,
Declared, “I’m fine driving! Let’s take her for a spin!”

He swaggered outside like a pirate on shore,
His keys in his hand and one shoe on the floor.
But just as he climbed in his four-wheeled disgrace,
His car said, “No way,” with a punch to the face.

The engine refused him, the tires said, “Nope,”
His GPS muttered, “This guy’s lost all hope.”
A squirrel called 9-1-1 with his tail,
And even his breathalyzer threatened to bail.

A friend pulled him back with a shake of the head,
“Try Uber instead, or you’ll wake up half-dead.”
So he ordered a ride, slurred, “I guess that’s all right,”
And safely passed out in a burrito that night.

The moral, my friend? If you’ve had a few,
Let someone else drive who’s sober and true.
Be silly, be loud, wear a hat made of cheese—
But don’t drink and drive. Just hand off the keys.