Two poisons live, by God, within my favourite brew.
It's ethanol and solanine, the latter's somewhat blue.
The first preserves all manner of things dear to man
the other may well cause the stuff to hit the fan.
It well could happen that in future a short race
will be deciding over me, and stare me in the face.
But frankly, dear, I couldn't give a healthy slug
which of the two will see me rolled up in a rug.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem