Tune: “The Moon over the West River”
Drunken, I’ll laugh my fill,
Having no time to be grieved.
Books of the ancients may say what they will,
They cannot be wholly believed.
Drunken last night beneath a pine-tree,
I asked it if it liked me so drunk.
Afraid it would bend to try to raise me,
“Be off!” I said and pushed back its trunk.