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Poem	And is it not a gesture grand To drink oneself to death? Oh sure 'tis I can understand, Being of sober breath. And so I do not sing success, But dirge the damned who fall, And who contempt for life express Through alcohol. Of Stephen Foster and of Poe, Of Burns and Wilde I think; And weary men who dared to go The wanton way of drink. Strange mortals blind to bitter blame, And deaf to loud delight, Who from the shades of sin and shame Enstar our night. Among those dupes of destiny Add D.T. to my list, Although his verse you may agree Leaves one in mental mist . . . Oh ye mad poets, loth of life, Who peace in death divine, Pass not by pistol, poison, knife,-- Drown, drown in wine!
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