When Bacchus blessed the evening with his art,
A dry martini danced upon the tongue,
Then Merlot's fruit did sing its liquid part—
O vintage hymns that left me far too young!
But dawn arrives with cruel and honest light,
My temples throb in iambic despair,
Those perfect drops that sparked such sweet delight
Now mock me from this morning's bitter air.
The phantom taste of excellence remains,
While conscience whispers of the price I've paid—
Yet still I'd choose these blessed, noble pains
Over cheap spirits or a life half-made.
For quality demands its rightful fee:
The morning's penance for the evening's spree.