Post a poem, you say?

[ajaxtalbot]

All right.

She tells me with claret she cannot agree,
And she thinks of a hogshead whene'er she sees me;
For I smell like a beast, and therefore must I
Resolve to forsake her, or claret deny.
Must I leave my dear bottle, that was always my friend,
And I hope will continue so to my life's end?
Must I leave it for her? 'Tis a very hard task.
Let her got to the devil!--bring the other full flask.

Had she taxed me with gaming, and bid me forbear,
'Tis a thousand to one I had lent her an ear;
Had she found out my Sally, up three pair of stairs,
I had balked her, and gone to St. James's to prayers.
Had she bade me read homilies three times a day
She perhaps had been humored with little to say;
But, at night, to deny me my bottle of red
Let her go to the devil!--there's no more to be said.