To Spirits Poem by Michael Walker

Oh, how I love the taste of sweet liqueur,
And relish whispers from the whiskey glass,
For when I drink, I smell the forests pure,
And breathe the ocean breezes in a flask.

I love the spicy petulance of rum,
That dances on the tongue, absconds with taste,
And in its hushing numbness, I'm struck dumb,
Such that unto my slumber I make haste.

Alas! With spirits, there's a price to pay:
The drop I sip becomes the drop I weep,
When sweetness into sadness does give way,
For they each other's company do keep.

If we refuse the Blood of Christ we killed,
We will swill, yet still will not be filled.