For you, like the carafe

waiting to be filled to the whim,

deserve the bubbling dream,

for the best play out with gaucherie.

Rivo! The shot glasses are lining up tight,

like beggars looking for a good time;

they catch the light like they’re winking,

faute de mieux – it’s the best option tonight:

for the paunch to grow as well as the pate,

as the first miracle is practically a decretal

to see God in the dimmest hole in the wall.

Why else would idioms otherwise exist?

These are the true poems to the moon,

Adding in romance to boot,

contrite that we didn’t waste more nights…

and had more hopeless plights.

Only here do we fight until standing

is an adynaton; our sorrows we dispense

with such largess, so be always drunken,

Charles, into the glass we’re all sunken.