Merrier With Vodka Than With His Rose
Steadily, the wine flows
And down a gullet goes;
Beside the bottle, tapping toes
Of Brown drowning his woes
And the brownish questions his foes
From plain mischief pose:
Every morning a repeated dose
That could ugly chapters close;
Its aroma a sport to his nose,
As his glass remains close…
The merrier with vodka than with his Rose…
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