When Poets wake from lurid absinthe dreams
The risk of their vocation shows its face;
An endless freight of drink cannot replace
A train of wild thought with calmer streams.
And though the Poet's symbols know extremes
The life they give her cannot find disgrace;
And though inclined to chew the Queen Anne's Lace
The brood that comes with mytho- squirms and teems.
I've painted pictures of the witch's grove
And sang the psalms of fools upon the trail;
The images that come are blinding still.
Upon my final leg I leave this cove
And drift into my sea to find a vale...
To scrawl "adieu" and drown my heavy quill.
Adding your comment:
Long have I been amazed by those writers who seemed able to consume their magical elixirs and then compose such incredible pieces, in spite of being intoxicated. I never could, nor would I ever attempt to do so. The weight of the quill is quite heavy enough without adding the weight of a massive headache to it. 
