What do I turn to
When I run out of ink?
What always proves true
When I need a drink?
Why does it haunt me
When my glass is not full?
Why does it quench me
When I take a pull?
I wonder of gin
When my mind wanders away.
I dream with a grin
Of its perfect bouquet.
What makes it so dry,
So clean to the taste?
I think I would cry
If I confused it with paste.
For when I am drunk
I might get confused;
Use gin on my trunk
Where glue should be used.
But only some gin
Will slake all my thirst
And it would be a sin
To put other drinks first.
So I sing of my booze,
Bring it anger or ire;
I doubt it is news
That I only drink Sapphire.
Back to the May Celebration.
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