I open up the bottle and savor the smell,
The medication to all men’s sorrow,
Who am I to do any well?
First port is full of disdain,
Each drop a new telltale of great men,
I quietly sit, devouring their pain.
Second port is full of memories,
Drop by drop I drink my own tears,
Obediently losing myself to reveries.
Third port is bitter with love,
Whisky mocks me,
Three ports do not suffice, are not enough.
Forth port is dull with drowsy fatigue,
I laugh at my withering senses,
And my incurable disease.
Fifth port is my egress to sleep,
Entrance to many a sweet Dreams,
I do not wake, I do not weep.
The bottle is as empty as my heart,
I wasted one for all men’s art,
Who am I to give my end a better start?