To Death In Sips Poem by Ima Ryma

Uncork that last bottle of mine,
And pour into a crystal glass,
Sense the bouquet of the fine wine,
A departing pleasure, alas.
With a finger, the wine I stir
To mix up with the poison well.
Upon drinking what will occur?
Will I go to heaven or hell?
I'm liking living less and less.
I guess I did expect much more,
And expected too much I guess.
My life has become such a bore.

Put down the emptied glass to meet
My end of time here, bittersweet.