Aug 052008
MY heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,
That thou, light-wingèd Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
Oh no. Wait!
It wasn't hemlock. It was fucking Guinness, and that was no light-wingèd Dryad of the trees. That was a big motherfucker of a cop with a truncheon.
Shadows numberless seems about right though, singing of summer in full-throated ease, while hanging around a lamp-post in the middle of the night.
God, isn't Romantic poetry so true to life?
No, surely, no!
No. Not really.
Nothing at all romantic about that bastard Guinness Export, brewed in Nigeria for the taste. I'm only just up out of my bed 12 hours after attending a Kerry wedding and necking as much of the free pish as my greedy belly would hold. The brew of the devil himself it is.
You're talking 7.5% there my friend.
And a fine brew it is too, devil or not.
And are you speaking from the heart or from experience?
Or both?
Neither. I need to choose my puns more carefully. Half my friends now think I'm a jailbird.