I take sips three from cask. Three sips I had.
Things still suck, but no make me so sad.
Cyrene fornicated hellhound, stupid people make things bad,
but with three sips from cask, I finely no mad.
with three sips from cask I feel able conquer all
but after three sip, to ground I fall.
I sip once for me, second for Family and friends.
Third for Cyrene. Hope she never ends.
Three sips from cask make words hard saying,
but after three sips in Cyrene I staying.
To Komos, Neugs, Pops, Mama and True,
To Komos, Neugs, Pops, Mama and True,
Sailing Doll Solira, Laurlaethee and Aunty Kyrista this one for you.
For my Grammy, for Ticca, and rest of my family, love overcome calamity
three sips make me eyes blurry, but make my heart see clearly.
three sips make me eyes blurry, but make my heart see clearly.

This poem from Corb Winterborn, The Silly Sausage of CIJ.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Chronos, in the year 990 AF.