And so we’ve had another night
of poetry and poses,
and each man knows he’ll be alone
when the sacred ginmill closes.
And so we’ll drink the final glass
each to his joy and sorrow
and hope the numbing drunk will last
'til opening tomorrow.
And when we stumble back again
like paralytic dancers
each knows the question he will ask
and each man knows the answers.
And so we’ll drink the final drink
that cuts the brain in sections
where answers never signify
and there aren’t any questions.
I broke my heart the other day.
It will mend again tomorrow.
If I’d been drunk when I was born
I’d be ignorant of sorrow.
And so we’ll drink the final toast
that never can be spoken:
Here’s to the heart that is wise enough
to know when it’s better off broken.