The King Drinks Too Much
Tonight ants may dance between His toes
Unlikely as it is that they could depose
Do they not know, that it matters no more
For the King drinks on the morrow
Hummus and veggies and cranberry juice
Laying gently on gilded platters as though trying to seduce
And those who carry potatoes that are mashed, corn that is on the cob and beans
By all means, they will become the prospect of Queens
In this night of bakkheia, the King gives to him in the trees
And in reverence falls to his knees
And rises inflamed with music and dance and merriment
And fears no longer meddlesome worriment
If on the morrow of the morrow the king should feel sorrow
It means that he has been thorough
And the King will pull up his skirts
Look at the birds, and trample all his honoured guests
Be wary of the King who drinks too much
Such is the the nature of bakkheia
Let us not become saddened
By the ebbing of the the flow of cranberry juice
We should follow then, the way of man
For whom water is better guidance
In that it flows patiently, adapting, adjusting, content
And accepts without reservation
