A Chantey of Departed Spirits

The earth is grown puny and pallid,
The earth is grown gouty and grey,
For whisky no longer is valid
And wine has been voted away —
As for beer, we no longer will swill it
In riotous rollicking spree;
The little hot dogs in the skillet
Will have to be swallowed with tea.

O ales that were creamy like lather!
O beers that were foamy like suds!
O fizz that I loved like a father!
O fie on the drinks that are duds!
I sat by the doors that were slatted
And the stuff had a surf like the sea —
No vintage was anywhere vatted
Too strong for ventripotent me!

I wallowed in waves that were tidal,
But yet I was never unmoored;
And after the twentieth seidel
My syllables still were assured.
I never was forced to cut cable
And drift upon perilous shores,
To get home I was perfectly able,
Erect, or at least on all fours.

Although I was often some swiller,
I never was fuddled or blowzed;
My hand was still firm on the tiller,
No matter how deep I caroused;
But now they have put an embargo
On jazz-juice that tingles the spine,
We can't even cozen a cargo
Of harmless old gooseberry wine!

But no legislation can daunt us:
The drinks that we knew never die:
Their spirits will come back to haunt us
And whimper and hover near by.
The spookists insist that communion
Exists with the souls that we lose —
And so we may count on reunion
With all that's immortal of Booze.
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