"So here he lies at the last. The deathbed convert. The pious debauchee. Could not dance a half measure, could I? Give me wine, I drain the dregs and toss the empty bottle at the world. Show me our Lord Jesus in agony and I mount the cross and steal his nails for my own palms. There I go, shuffling from the world. My dribble fresh upon the bible. I look upon a pinhead and I see angels dancing." -
John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester "The Libertine"
Empty bottles line barefooted floors,
a way to count the days. Or nights.
Each one leads one to the next,
and more behind the cellar door.
Oh how I count the days,
without thought or reason.
A countdown clock, a rainy season,
Oh how I count the ways.
My love has squandered listlessly,
upon the lass of lust.
Though if one were willing to carve a bust,
my love would shine explicitly.
So drain the dregs and share the wealth,
and give no care to thy health.
Smoke and shrug and lay with me,
Lay with me, imperfectly.