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1645

The Ditch is dear to the Drunken man
For is it not his Bed—
His Advocate—his Edifice?
How safe his fallen Head
In her disheveled Sanctity—
Above him is the sky—
Oblivion bending over him
And Honor leagues away.

Edited by Peter Carter

Added: 2 Apr 2003 | Last Read: 7 Jun 2025 5:08 PM | Viewed: 7717 times

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