for my brother, Jeff
(and for my other brothers,
Yi-fang and Yi-da)
Thirty-eight years old.
Come on in from out of the cold!
Fill your cup,
bottoms up.
Put your lips to the funneling gold!
‘Nother thirty-eight,
may we still be standing up straight.
Liquid silk,
mother’s milk.
Never mind when the hour gets late.
White Bordeaux,
English ale,
frothy flow from a Yankee pail.
Kenyan roast,
China tea –
be the boast of the blood of me.
Milky wine,
milky beer –
keep us fine for a hundred year.
Milky beer,
milky wine.
One more year, dear brother of mine!
Have another verse.
Don’t despair if we empty our purse!
We’ll go home,
drink the poem,
bully fate and happily curse,
cup our favorite ink,
put our cups together and clink –
crystal drains,
flowing veins,
thirty-eight years sharing our drink.
White Bordeaux,
English ale,
frothy flow from a Yankee pail.
Kenyan roast,
China tea –
be the boast of the blood of me.
Milky wine,
milky beer –
keep us fine for a hundred year.
Milky beer,
milky wine.
One more year, dear brother of mine!
What the Owl of Death Said to Sleep and to Peace in the Sarcophagus
[Previous: Dedication]
[Next: What the Owl of Death Said to Peace and to Sleep in the Sarcophagus]
[Molly's Song (and Other Poems) homepage]