Philosophical Liquor


Facetious men with fallacious philosophy,

Fashioned fictitiously with fleeting flecks of fallacy,

(Having finished from their fill of bottled ferment)

Went, fully bent on the firmament,

To flippantly fill their mental facets

With frivolous fineries from far.  And at the tacet,

They plied their music farther, and forte phrased it:

“What was it that that fickle father has writ?

That man whose wit were twice as great as those of they

Who claim the greatest part of man today?

Said he ‘fair is foul and foul is fair’?

Or does my drunken mind cause me to err?

Indeed I think ’twere truly written just so,

And so it was ev’n if ’twere not, I know,

For my reality is relative,

To me, my thought and truth correlative.

If I am drunk on wine and think me sober,

A prudent man may perpetually pester me as a prober

Into the amber contents of my intoxicating drink,

‘What’s this?’ he asks ‘that masks your mind in manic—

This malice makes my tempered reason panic—

What causes you to inebriated think

That night is day and day is night, and light

Is dark, dark light?  ‘Tis not right.

To what end do you let your wisdom end?’

But he is wrong to think me wrong, ‘My friend,’

I say, ‘the drunkenness that you perceive inside me

Is but a coloured tint of your sobriety;

You’ve drunk too much the air, who fills the mind

With sense and reason to the times behind.

Most truly are you drunk and I am dry,

Although but my drink may be less dry than thine,

For not a man is there who roams the earth

And drinks not of something, whether plainly or in mirth.

In earthly mirth do I make my mind to medal

And shall not care to take offence and meddle

In your affairs, your truths and doctrines prodigious;

You may have your hypocrisies religious.

Prodigious doctrines, religious hypocrites,

Their enough to give the fondest follower antic fits!

Away with you!  Go your ways!  But I

Will find a fouler function for my inner eye.’

And so would I repel him, with drunken errored verse,

Neither drunk nor errored, for his ways are worse,

Though there’s not such a thing, than mine.  But i’ th’ sanity of madness

Let me go, and retire to relative bliss.”

And so he faltered off to fill his mind

With foolish fortunes—that man of mankind.

I too, a poetic stander by, cannot

Help but sympathise with the dry man’s lot,

The one who felt the man who spoke to himself

Was not true. Though foolish folly is wealth

On this repugnant earth, I think the worldly

Is wrong about reality. Surely,

If man calls fair the evil thing that’s foul,

Then in his tongue I must say ‘fair’ is foul.

And if he calls by ‘Foul’ the Beauty fair,

I also lie and use his language there.

A just life is a dance ‘top burning coals,

A careful weaving through the mortal holes;

We learn to play the game ‘gainst fools, and sing

The song that best might quickly freedom bring.

But quietly and carefully, my reader,

Avoid the drink but use the words in meter

With the twisted world.  You too will indeed seem drunk;

Your sober secrets private as a monk,

But come, brave soul, and in this find consolation:

The drunken man’s wanting consummation

Will never bring a fruitful final day—

Unless you might use a different backward phrase—

But words won’t last, and so that language is lost

Is not a matter to we who know the cost

Of ill and worth of True Benevolence,

So yet we look on Right with reverence.

But woe to you who head this quiet verse,

For on this earth your mortal life is worse

(There being such a thing, the drunkard … right)

Than that of him who carless mocks the song.