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

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