Moved by the muses,

the time of night

and by the fates,

I’m going to throw

my glass

into the fireplace.

Oh, no I’m not;

the fireplace is

fake;

and the CD of a

crackling hearth,

make no mistake,

is also fake.

I’ve gained my

senses, after a

time-out brake;

the glass goes in

the sink

with last dredges

of wine down

the drink

and tomorrow

morning, I’ll

be sober and

cast off the last

vestiges of

demon drink.

I think.