Michael Graham Baddeley


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.

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