Michael Graham Baddeley
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Angels Of The Drink
I clench at the bottle within my bony grasp,
And as drunken fumes enrage my mind I gasp
As before me the Angel of Death stands fast.
What right has it, to stand as such?
Am I not king? A prince of boundless wrath?
‘Away with thee’, and hobble away upon my crutch.
My regal scepter of rags and ash.
With the silence of thieves it creeps upon me.
A shadowy cloak that glides, as if it were free from the heavy world of man.
And all around it dances gaily to mock me,
Showing me what I am.
Yet then I turn and face it,
For I have drunk from the cup ...