I’ve got nothing right; I’ve got nothing left.
Not a crumb.
No leftovers.
Not an ounce.
Not a drop.

Drop the attitude; I’m fresh out.
Out of love.
Out of breath.
Outcast and downcast.
Out of time.

Time flew. I’ll be seeing you.
You’ve seen the last of me.
You got all there was.
You’ll get no more.
You’ve taken your last shot.

Shitted, shat, shot. I’m wasted.
“Waste not, want not.”
What was it Auntie Rita always said?
Wasted away to nothing.
Washed up and dried out.

Dry as a bone, I’m empty.
“Aw, yer full o’ shit!”
“Full of beans, just like your dad.”
“Fuller Brush Man, son. Your mother at home?”
“Fulsome Prison Blues.”

Blue and blown away. I’m wiped out.
Flat.
Fizz-free.
Fun-less.
Finished.

Fin. I’m all in.
Cashed out.
Out of copper.
Come a cropper.
Spent.