An Inkling of Poetry: The Sip

An Inkling of Poetry: The Sip The souls who never sleep The same men who each night creep May all same day convene Where less mortals contravene For want of More draughts to Sip But it shall not be told For such night as bleak and cold As this sad communion Would leave no one's true Champion A recourse To be less bold Indeed sip the cauldron It is choice wine they let on The hearty cheers ring out Alike men in a dug out A drinking Away head on