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The Alcoholic’s Lament
As I wonder,
ponder, ponder,
I start to think
that I would like a drink.
Yes, I would like a drink,
I think.
No, I must resist the scourge,
and indeed the urge,
but the urge is there,
and I stare at the accursed brew.
A clue perhaps can be found,
if I make not a sound,
if I avert my gaze from the vase,
in which it is contained.
Just one I say,
but I stay and finish off the jug.

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