Absinthe unravels the plight and the pain;
It makes your head feel alright, sent to your brain.
Oh, and when you sip absinthe. . .feel like you fly.
God, I’m hooked on absinthe, though it seems to cloud my eyes.

Down in Spain, they drink it instead of Brit gin.
Swell absinthe with agua turns an opalescent tinge.
Oh, it’s true, you know, I can’t get enough—
Gorge I on absinthe, oh, I swig way too much.

Absinthe, I chug it, and it emboldens me
As it anneals my brain till the stars seem unreal.
Some cells have died—they may well have been fried.
Absinthe imparts a sense that I’m reified.

Absinthe unravels uptightness, a bane;
In spite of this, you’ll be tight, sensing no pain.
Oh, and when I sip absinthe. . .feel like I fly.
God, I’m hooked on absinthe—just like that loud shrieking guy.*
Oh god, I’m hooked on absinthe, just like that clouds-seeking guy.**


*Arthur Rimbaud
**Charles Baudelaire: “J'aime les nuages... les nuages qui passent... là-bas... là-bas... les merveilleux nuages!”—“L’Etranger”
[I love the clouds, the clouds that float by—there, there, the marvelous clouds!]