That I Might Know the Proof of You
Eeza geezer, Dionysus.
Gizza nuzzer to entice us
Inniz wurship – God of Gordons.
Bollocks to them prudy wardens
Sipping on their PG Tipsy,
Brewing herbs like any gypsy.
Scoring tuts they hope will crack us.
Help to keep us drunk, oh Bacchus !
Make us all too sloshed to care,
And stink our belches, glaze our stare –
Then dull their nagging, blur their saga.
Piss me up, oh Lord of Lager !
Spirits call me to your shrine;
Visions fill me, Vine Divine !
Awe-full shakes set me a quiver.
Take this sacrifice: my liver.