Bacchanalian Bingo

The hazzards of having one over the eight during a game

"Legs eleven!" roars the caller,
You stumble whilst arising, taller,
Your tipple topples floorwards bound,
"House!" you shout amidst the clatter,
Crash! Glass and bottle hit the ground,
Feet come running pitter-patter.

On the floor and lying prostrate,
Flailing like a drowning primate,
You wonder if your shout was heard,
Two fat ladies stifle laughter,
Awaiting further acts absurd,
"House!" you scream again thereafter.

Spot arrives, aslide on parquet,
Scattering the upturned ashtray,
Canine helper - wagging, furry,
You find yourself down on your knee,
Peering up, your vision blurry,
The caller proffers "Thee and me!".

Make them wait for old age pension,
Others too polite to mention,
That which caused your hurly burly -
The twelve or thirteen gins you've sunk,
Two times calling "House!" too early,
Or that in fact you're rather drunk.

Coming part-way to your senses,
(Sober under no pretences),
You bend down to adjust your shoe,
Forgetting that you may have won,
Those assembled turn and watch you,
Three score and ten, get up and run.

A graceful exit will save face,
Instead ensues a fateful chase -
As sot and Spot race for the door,
Stepping on fallen cubes of ice,
Old woman hits the floor once more,
The drunkard that has fallen twice.