The maudlin in me is brought up, dredged from

the many consumptions that plague us,

honey-sweet or bitter, burning slow down sliding

through my throat like a blessed ague.

I’m sick, baby, didn’t you know,

I’m tormented by demons you’ve never met.

Give me that bottle and you’ll see

I was never Heaven-sent.

I have my share of scars too,

I’ve been bruised black and blue.

I’ve crawled up from the depths

and I won’t be turning back.

You try to push me back

but I’m not going nowhere,

you gave me that bottle, baby,

and now you gotta sit down and listen

why I’ve done myself wrong

and how you can’t put it right.

Before darkness, there’s no fixing

we’ve got a hint of magic,

a taste of tragedy,

and a whisper of the forbidden

amongst the many living

and innumerable resting dead.