Perhaps, I think, the time has come
for my descent to slumber,
And yet I find my mind has spun
towards crescent moons and thunder.
Times long passed inspire men
to battle or to grief,
If I am fast perhaps, just then,
my soul turns a new leaf.
What now is this, my drunken slurs,
or creative inspiration?
Am I no worse than sunken curs,
deserving of damnation?
Again my thoughts have delved too deep
and caused me to be nervous.
Yet I'll drink my shots and play for keeps,
If I can be of service.