I do not think
But I am living under this mountain,
That might crush the life out of me
Any time, any day,
So, I drink anyway.
Too much grandiosity
Dims the soul
Makes us old.

I hear the wise ones pleading, screaming when on fire,
So much screaming, as the flames they get higher:
Hebane, belladonna, mandrake, datura
All of these, like mescaline, can see right through yer.
A broom, a pitchfork, a basket, or a snake
The old religion of love, for love’s own sake.

The beautiful Cathars*
Heard a rumble far below
Looked on the surface,
Saw nothing, only snow.
Hares' prints lead me,
Track me to this folly
Red berries on
The christmas holly:

Soon, I shall go into a hare,
I know
With sorrow and sych
And meickle, meckle care;
And I shall go in the Devil's name,
And aye, while I go, I come home again.

Sometimes phantasma
Strip my wits away
Sometimes for a minute
Often for a day
Glad to be rid of them
Pfff they are gone.
My wits, for a minute,
My wits, for a song.

* - The Cathars ( from the Greek Katharoi for “pure ones”) were a dualist medieval religious sect of Southern France which flourished in the 12th century CE and challenged the authority of the Catholic Church.  Cathar priests lived simply, had no possessions, imposed no taxes or penalties, and regarded men and women  as equals; aspects of the faith which appealed to many at the time disillusioned with the corruption of the RC Church. Cathar beliefs ultimately derived from the pre-Islamic Persian religion of Manichaeism.

OF COURSE THESE HERETICS WERE MASSACRED, TORTURED, BURNT, WIPED OUT BY THE ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH