In spite of my physician,
Who in con­stant admonition,
Says my heart will palpiltate
And my blood coagulate
In a dirge of caffien­ated demolition;

Make my hands to vacillate,
My car­nate temple desecrate,
Be my ter­minal undoing,
Each fell sip my ruin brewing,
To addle, muddle, and intoxicate.

Fuck, I say sincerely,
I live thus cavalierly,
If my organs burst asunder,
Then chas­tise me, Quack, and thunder,
It was meet and just to urge you so severely!

But until my urn is packed,
In a colum­bary stacked,
Until it is too late to bear regret,
O’er her caustic coquetry I will not fret,
And dally on, her bitter vices to extract.

Glory, laud, her rich extraction
Ripe with chem­ical reaction,
Vis­cous jet of ink descending,
Sweet insom­no­lency vending,
An uncouth and irre­sistable attraction.

If life afforded slumber,
Every moment not encumber
With a pace that ever quickens,
And a lethargy that thickens,
My limbs like lazing lumber.

If the rushing, blur­ring vision,
An obscene cosmic misprision,
Might ebb away, stand still,
Grant me calm amidst the shrill,
I’d not need her keen and puis­sant provision.

Sultry siren, how you rouse me,
Waxen and acerbic ebon sea!
So beset­tingly I lust
For each neuron-sparking thrust,
Your astrin­gently licen­tious guarantee.

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