Twelve o'clock and lightly buzzed, sipping le Boison de Noir like englishmen sipping tea; A pinch of stars and a splash of dark, it goes down so easily. I taste and sip, my head I dip, Night refills the cup for me. By one o'clock I'm tipsy, romanced by the hour and taken in by adjectives... I am...mellow I am calm I am...surreal. Another gulp and I lose ability to feel. Buzzed on words I wait to be absolutely drunk with poetry. Didn't used to take over me so soon... now I'm lame and wasted, needing early sleep. I used to get tipsy with metaphor at the glorious young hour of three. Well crap. I'm trying too hard.