A freaking sonnet

Last night I drank Schlitz with my feet tucked up,
and listened to Etta James sing "At last."
It was a right jolly holly day sup,
the lights were low, reflecting off the glass.

We pulled glass angels out of their papers,
lining them up on the angel table.
Behind them rose golden tower tapers,
dripping wax down their wrapping cables.

The complications of a chocolate blintz,
with cognac-soaked blackberries on the top,
were pondered by my tongue until I winced
and had to beg the blintz to kindly stop.

The blintz had a mind of its own and played,
until my sappy heart had sorely paid.