I shall Think, Drink, and Write till I fall over.
A Hot summer night:
No breeze, no air, no moon overhead to fill my pen with ink.
I see my old city
I sip my vodka wings and disappear.
Just a poor writer among the rich.
To be at the river
Is where I desire to be.
Nothing hindering me,
But pages to fill and a drunk and stumbling walk home up a winding rocky hill.