I do not drink   

But I am living under this mountain

That might crush the life out of me

Any time, any day

So, I drink anyway.

 
 Lucifer, Brightest of Bright Angels, stuttered out

"'Non Serviam! I will not serve!'”

And that is enough, and more than enough, for me

To condemn all the big words spluttered by politicians. 

 
I will not serve that in which I no longer believe

Whether it call itself my race, my nationality or my religion

Too much grandiosity dims the soul
Makes us (c)old.

 
I hear the wise ones pleading, pleading when on fire,

Just so much screaming, as the flames 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 old sake

 
The beautiful Cathars'

Heard the rumble far below

Looked at the surface, saw nothing only snow.

Hares' prints lead the way to folly

Red bberries, like blood, on the christmas holly:

 
I shall go into a hare,

With sorrow and sych and meickle, meckle care;
And I shall go in the Devil's name,
Aye and while I go, I will come home again.
 
Sometimes phantasma 
Take 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.

?si=XKEJF9HeV_PvXaGe