American Literature 9am Monday

I wake up and sit up
And feel the cold
With the heat on high
From the radiator old
The whistle of the steam
Its projectile waterflow
The bubble of my stomach
And the alarm beeping bold
I sip on water
For my mouth of cotton
The bane of the bottle
Of the night before
Bitter in the morning
My head a little bit sore
I mumble and mutter
Its a miracle for sure
I didn't wake up in a gutter
Where if blood were gold
I'd be richer, but
A kidney poor.