O! Pour me some of that fair, flooding draught
Which marshals forth that darkest of darkness,
Leaving me sinking into something less,
Easily erasing all thought of craft.
That's all I am, something crass, something daft,
With wounds from the past that I'd rather not dress,
Instead escape to my glass, not to stress
Old hurts long forgotten, stitched, closed, still graft.
O! Please, please, take from me this dreadful drink!
It has stolen me, all I ever was;
Robbing me blind with every sip and gulp.
Man once, now a shell, in this draught I sink.
Flee, run, I will! Yet she calls me she does.
That fine draught devoured my soul to the pulp.