A/N: I'm not entirely certain about the tenses; if they work. If it was prose, they'd be a whole lot better, but poetry's more difficult. Also, the last lines are really terrible. Never mind. I hope you like it, anyway.
Alibi
...
Eight o'clock on Friday night,
You'll see the very common sight
Of six inebriated drinkers
Giggling, and faces pink as rosé wine
Sat round a table,
Vodka glasses in unstable hands
And telling stories of
'The Great Natasha Romanov'
Or 'Best of Barton - Acrobat'
Or 'Cap the Stevester rescues cat from tree' or
'Thor and Toaster Fun'
Or 'Tony's Orgy (Everyone's
Invited, next time, by the way.)'
And each of them will have their say
In turn. The night just wanders on.
At twelve, health-conscious Bruce has gone.
At one, Natasha leaves for bed.
At two, Clint gets up, holds his head,
And exits. Every Friday night.
The same old thing. Downstairs, the light
Is dimming: JARVIS softly hints
At bed. At three, the foreign prince
Admits exhaustion, downs his drink
And leaves the others at the brink
Of dawn because he's proved before
That he can drink them to the floor.
It's Tony left, and Steve, with rum.
Their hands are sure. Their thoughts are numb.
They've not quite reached their limit yet.
They've not quite given up: they're set
On lasting out the night. Three bottles
Full before them: half the lot'll go
Before the morning ends.
They're rival drinkers now; not friends.
The captain pours another shot
And Tony matches him: they've got
Another six more drinks to go.
The sky is pink; the sun is low.
And Tony drinks as much as he's able...
...
Steve still drinks him under the table.