Wine (The Aftermath) Poem by robert dickerson

Go not to bed in wine
nor ale, my friends, withal,
lest in the morn
by Bacchus borne
you swing your limbs in hell:
your tongue to harness turned
your head become a drum
for every sound
the whole world round
to pummel, pummel on

With a trembling hand and an aching head
helpless to sleep or get out of the bed
wondering what, but not wanting to know
what you mightn't have said, and for what, and to who-

Oh, early leave scotch whiskey
Quit that steeple chase
lest in the morn
John Barleycorn
be sitting on your face;
Juniper-steeped gin
and colorless moonshine
by half-past ten
with all good men
be leaving fast behind.

Then, the sun for a fellow, you'll spring from the bed
toss back the curtains, toss back your head
and deliver yourself of the hymns that compose
and apportion themselves during a sober repose.