Lager ale and three finger Jack,
love denied and romance burning on the back,
insinuated promises that caught me in an unguarded look,
seems I only thought the moon howled and the earth split and shook.
Why must passion color me crimson when it dies so pale?
Another run up of bottled courage and steel resolve's determined delusion,
finding that the gods have by their madness and meddlesome intrusion
conspired my cupiditous ventures to make ironic ruin,
and Mickey Finn me with what in darkness their divinity has been a' brewin'.
When will my summer rose in winter finally bloom and brightly blossom?
Thrice I've suffered honesty's feminine appraisal,
that all my loveliness and Gaelic charm has the appeal of shelf-lived witch hazel--
and so conning my sorrowed, soulless self endlessly this mantra I repeat:
'tis only themselves that me passing they do cheat.
How shall I a love that not e'en tempest wills to toss consider anything but hope's continual loss?