Tip it in


Watch my stupid grin widen
As I tip it in
Every sodden gin
Every alcohol thing justified
Every false moment intensified
By something that does not exist
You cannot pour happiness
From the spout of a brown ale mile
happiness does not reside in the alphabet of a glass bottle smile
No matter what they print inside
And even if
Your pint glass
Is married to the cardboard of a beer mat
I shall dispute the fact that
Happiness is far from here.
In fact
The veneer that holds the steer of the stag
Is the only real thing around.
I have not
Nor ever will
Claim to have found
Happiness
At the bottom of a bottle.