A fearsome and delicious spirit, gin,
Which soothes the tongue and warms the weary head,
When mixed with quinine, makes a medicine
Whose thaumaturgy’s well-known and widespread.

At least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe,
Unwinding from tonight’s demanding show,
But from my writing I get no reprieve-
I cannot quit with just a month to go.

Though that remaining month is so congested
That dieties would have to intervene
To make me, midst the gigs, properly rested,
At least until we start twenty-fifteen.

I celebrate both couplet and the bottom
Of my fair drink, both transient as autumn.