Arms

My arms ache from hanging on,
To that pillar of sanity that
Controls our daily lives.
It has been said, by those
Who supposedly know,
That Poets usually succumb,
To the degradations of alcohol,
Lose their grip on reality
And become insane or die,
At an early age.
I am well on my way to
Becoming an accomplished drinker
And feel, that it is only a matter
Of time before sanity deserts
Me or my liver quits,
And then it's over.

Note! This was originally written approximately 40 years ago.