High in the lands of the snow we go, ho ho ho
Up and upright through the waters of the tides
Glasses held high, made of glass and crystal cervas
A vaceline candel through this black blooded nectar we ride
These deep draughts come from southern squeeze grapes
These vines
What is the meaning of the storm striking lightning
Under the sea of Christ so divine
When do you find me, great kraken
So longsome, and so wise
With your eyes and your stare, smiling through these tides
These vines
Finding myself a man across the sands, I hold a skin, wine drunk and divine
What is the land of Ireland, if it cannot come to Arabia, through Nepal’s tide
Back across the road, through Babylon and Prince Lucifer’s abode, the gaoler’s hook of pride
When do we find ourselves, up in the mountains again, climbing stone steps
To go home, these vines
Poetry Munitions 