The Hungover Ruba'iyat
By Rhys Hughes
the minstrel had; his lute
trailed in the dust.
He approached the tavern
with copper eyes
and a rusty cry to boot:
"From Trebizond to Isfahan,
I have strummed the joys
of sunset wine!"
Empty belly and face
were also his; his lantern
jaw had gone out.
Among the landlord's guests
to earn a place
he added to his song:
"Lift loaf and cup to rosy
lips but plant a kiss in
my pocket first."
Heavier than pots
were the eyelids raised
at this vintage talk.
Knowing the tune to be a fraud
men crooned a
thousand other fakes:
"Drink more, my friends,
for it is near morn,
and the tongue is sleepwalking
in the driest mouth,
creaking each tooth like a floorboard.
No time to waste in idle ache
when the grape
is mourning on its stalk!"
No place in this house
the minstrel had; his skills
were far too ripe.
His audience were sick
of drinking verse
but sighed as he spilled away.
For all his pains, his purse stayed
light as a fist of snow, his feet
bloody as figs.
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