How can I forsake my brethren’s call
To drink and make merry, one and all?
A riotous party of simple taste,
Some of us married, none of us chaste.

We roam the streets until we find
A suitable parlour that comforts our kind.
A round of drinks, first, to feel the fire
In our old limbs, and us to inspire.
Followed by talks of current affairs
And the performance of our bonds and shares.
Then: ‘Bring us the bottle, our good man,’ we cry,
‘We cannot converse if our gullets are dry!’

Raising our glasses for yet one more toast,
Daring each other to drink the most.
Lamenting the state that our love lives are in
With copious amounts of ale, whisky and gin;
Leering at nymphs passing our table.
Alas, truth be told, none of us able
To follow it through and oblige as we must.
Instead we but jest with impotent lust.

At dawn, then, we bid our host farewell.
(He’s pleased that we go, that much I can tell.)
We leave for our lodgings to curse in our beds
Those weak guts and bladder, and nails in our heads.