There sat a gnarled sage, far gone with musty hooch—
So lit, in fact, it curdled in his beard and dribbled on his pooch—
but nevermind the stench, my friends, he’s wiser than the ‘shine!
nevermind that wailing cur; he’s better with some wine—
Some wine, my man! I shouted at the ‘keeper with a snarl
And then he lifted up a box of Zin, that barman known as Karl,
And back I tilted Sage’s head, and down he poured the booze
Until it flowed like Yangtze o’er and gurgled with a snooze.
My God, he’s gone to sleep! They all together gasped
while Zin kept pouring down his cheeks, the red rain draining fast
So I knocked him to the floor, and kicked him to his side:
Wake up! I yelled between the snores: You’re half near deadified!
But when I heard the nasal rustling swell, then cease
and nothing moving, head to toe, nor elbows’ aching crease
Well, then, we gathered round that wiry winter sage
And bowed our heads with glasses high in praise:
Here lies a man what died doing what he liked:
a half keg twice a night or three, sometime a whiskey spiked
whereby he lies in red from shittest wine a-box:
no better place to be, we’d say, when watches end their tocks.