French Wine: A Love Song

When a good wine fills my stomach,
I am more erudite than Balzac—
More wiser than Pibrac;
My arm alone making the attack,
Of the nation Cossack,
It would sack;
Of Charon, I would spend the lake
Sleeping in his ferry;
I would go to proud Eac,
Without my heart making any tick nor tock,
Presenter of tobacco.

In the darkness there, I drink,
But I drink with fervor;
Alone, without you, lost and forgotten,
All alone and unbeknownst to them,
When you think of nothing else
Except to flow down my pipe
And coat my stomach,
You alone can cure me
Of all my ills when I am sober.
So it seems to me that I am nothing but loneliness,
For you – you alone are the one.

You reside, in the darkness there,
And you are kept in a glass bottle;
And when my delight would win me,
It seems that I can only exist in a lie—
I am nothing but a pathological liar,
And then, only then, can I know my true self;
I am sorry, sorry for all that I have done,
My brain is not right now:
I think – all I do is think,
And you corrupt my soul;
I know, however, you mean well.

So when I drink thee,
I think of nothing else except you:
For the wine cabinet in my stomach
Is filled with expensive wines much like yourself;
I, being a philosopher, am all alone in the darkness,
But I know – I know – you’re there somewhere,
Somewhere only that I know:
I drink and drink and drink,
My brain is scrambled and corrupted,
And I know now it’s too late,
For I am reduced to mush.