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How, unless you drink as I do, can you hope to understand the beauty of an old indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken? Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

On a road out of London pulled up at a pub
I heard him say the words I remember, today.
The working man suffers: glug, glug, glug
The drinking man loves: glug, glug, glug.
Taste the whiskey, feel the craic, 
all that convivial shite — he’s a creature of the night
searching for the resurrection of a moment of lost content
he rumbles, merely mumbles, all that lying in his head.
S/he who drinks a drink or two or twenty
never counts, just says ‘plenty.’
Aligned with the rhythm of a 12-bar blues:
booze, bloody, booze.
He sees his way to AA, up on the Finchley road,
but had to confess, in a moment of rest,
he loves too much the sparkle, 
as booze dances in his head,
he jives with the sun:
and after all the music
the poetry has begun.