The glass of wine, sitting pretty on the table
Mockingly says, don't drink me if you are able
See how crimson rose I appear
Just one glass won't bring a tear
I'm good for the heart, the fool says
I'm being smart, I prolong my days
But, after one, there will have to be two
And after two, I'll have you
We'll sing and dance for the first three or four
And after eight, you'll still want more
Then my moment comes, somewhere around ten
You pray to God, to pardon your sin
And I laugh at you, and all your kind
Who think so wise, yet be so blind
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem