I wish these rocky days were at an end
and I could go at last to join my friend.
I have no great desire to stay on here
and would much rather simply disappear.

No-one will really mourn me, should I go
to that great drinker’s tavern down below;
much less is there some lover who might grieve,
were I to pop my clogs and take my leave.

I do believe he’s lounging with a beer,
somewhere that lager like a river flows,
where time is never called and no-one knows
what death might hold without this liquid cheer.

Mark Seymour was his name; he loved a drink
and waits, one poured for me, I’d like to think.