While Moira stinted not on Jacob's Creek

Red wine was a fine art I never mastered

That Saturday night was an epic session

We strode naked in her garden, plastered

My memory of events is somewhat vague

A thorn ripped the seat of my underpants

Then I was rolling about the grass, stinking

Of cat-shit, eaten alive by nocturnal ants

Moira was concerned about a hedgehog

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Losing all my trust,
yet I still believe you,
admitting my defeat.

You have lied,
many times before,
and you still told me things,
no body knows.

Showed your true colours,
but never showed your face.
Flirt with the thought of death,
somehow you were stopped,
but this time,
nothing stands in the way,
except for a bottle of rum,
a golden pen and a writing you'll never understand.

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As the last drips of rum

slip from glass to lips

I feel the heartache

of pirates and poets.

The anchor is raised on a ship

setting sail for foreign shores,

whilst my glass is raised

and tipped once more.

An empty glass,

an empty bottle;

this is the heartache

of pirates and poets -

to feel the ebb and flow,

to be the empty vessel

on a...

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'

I may not be

your cup of tea

but I am your

bottle of rum --

most definitely...

so ease up that grip:

Stop strangling my neck.   

Let My liquid conflagration

scorch your lying condescension 

again and again and again.... without fail.   

If you but remember to be true  

to what lurks deep within you

I will assail your do...

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