Absinthe

Absinthe

Little green devil, O’ wormwood imp,
You made my mind crippled,
You made my brain limp.

You gnawed at my synapses, dulled every sense,
And stole all my memory,
Without recompense.

You made my legs rooted; you made my arms weak,
And my lips turned to lime wax,
Unable to speak.

So, back in the bottle, thou green spawn of hell,
‘Til I next tumble under,
Thy bohemian spell.

(C) Paul Ferry 2005

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