Those old Rhône rounds are too tame;
I have stepped up, past thebaine.[1]
So now to treat me there’s no grappa[2] or Trappist.[3]
Down with sloe—it sucks, tinged with sweet berries.
When I “skol!” it’s with the Fairy.
I love to gulp a green, green glass not Rhône.

Yes, when I’m due to treat me,
My arms reaching for eau de vie
That has been touched by Green, Green lass alone.

This old souse is still standing,
Though my brain is wracked and fried.
But no oaked Chardonnay will I take. . .a plague on.

Down I drain a lot of my sweet Fairy—
Hair of Rov-er makes me merry.
It’s good to gulp a green, green glass not Rhône.

SPOKEN:
When I awake and look around me
At the four green walls that surround me,
I now realize, yes, that I am dreaming.
I’d hit it hard, and my synaptic cadre,
Harmed, alarmed by absinthe parfait.
Again, I’ll gulp the green, green glass.
Atone?!

No! I’ll be drunk as can be. . .milky shade of opacity
Which will lay me on the green, green grass, so stoned.


[1]A minor constituent of opium, thebaine is chemically similar to both morphine and codeine
[2]Italian brandy
[3]Beer/ale brewed by or under control of Trappist monks