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.