The strange look of a lady of pleasure Turned slyly toward us like the white beam Which the undulous moon casts on the trembling lake When she wishes to bathe her nonchalant beauty;
The last bag of crowns between a gambler's fingers; A lustful kiss from slender Adeline; The sound of music, tormenting and caressing, Resembling the distant cry of a man in pain,
All that is not worth, O deep, deep bottle, The penetrating balm that your fruitful belly Holds for the thirsty heart of the pious poet;
You pour out for him hope, and youth, and life — And pride, the treasure of all beggary, Which makes us triumphant and equal to the gods!
Or is that the point of drinking.....hmmmmm.....o.o
I don't know.