The alcoholic spirit,
   When by it I'm possessed,
Makes me crazy, (or near it),
   And often much depressed;

But the good spirit Mary
   (Belovèd Mary Jane!)
Is Alcohol's contrary:
   She makes me peaceful and sane.

O.O

I’d lie, or cheat, or steal, or ****,
Or all my blood thus gladly spill
Then drink, or all of the above,
To spend a night with you, my Love.

O.O

Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
    Beneath a streetlight casts a shadow.
He'd hoped to find a sunny, green
        Elysian meadow.

Barely a man, at sweet sixteen
    He's gone where none who love him can follow.
He drank his cup of bitter teen
        In one large swallow.

Where he has gone,—to what demesne,—
    (If we in life are ever rooted),
Is all conjecture very mean,
        And much disputed.  

He's gone, and yet he still is seen
    Suffering love's disdain and panging:
Poor, broken-hearted Abel Spleen
        Is dead weight hanging.

O.O

Ignore the slither and hiss:
      Unsprung
The asp desires a kiss
      With tongue.

O.O

Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
Children are born not of love but lust.

O.O

The tangents on my clavichord
Were fashion'd from a ****** sword
That slew a man who music made
Which ought like him to be decay’d.

O.O

I crack my knuckles: nor any pleasure lingers.
I’d rather break your hand and all its fingers.

O.O