Whisky! Whisky’s the nectar, boys,
and whether you gentrify it
by taking it neat from a short glass
in small sips delicate as a hummingbird
hovering in a garden of red flowers
in lyric bloom on an August late afternoon,
or take it straight from the bottle’s neck
like a panting dog at the nearest puddle
after a long run in the sun,
matters as little as whether or not you claim to love.
Boys, the rain will come, and the sun in its turn,
each pushing its own brand of life and death—
two for a dollar! Pick your poison!
Drink up or abstain, it’s all the same.
In the end, we can’t even hold our breath—
it leaves our lungs and is lost
in the wind that blows as it will.