Overindulgence Poem

The finger or two of ‘Sark stared
As Charbel bared
His ribbons out
For the drunk lout

Time’s Bacchanal obscurity 
No surety
Not one bread crumb
Till morning come

Little saint laid face down, scotch drained
A man just brained
Was the malaise
Come the sun’s rays

Fool of congeners and headaches
Sick in the jakes
To curb this djinn
I’ll stick with gin