I do not drink,

But I am living under this mountain

That might crush the life out of me

Any time, any day,

So, I drink anyway.

Too much grandiosity

Dims the soul

Makes us old.

I hear the wise ones pleading, pleading when on fire,

So much screaming, as the flames they get higher:

Hebane, belladonna, mandrake, datura

All of these, like mescaline, can see right through yer.

A broom, a pitchfork, a basket, or a snake

The old religion of love,

For love’s old sake.

The beautiful Cathars

Heard the rumble far below

Looked at the surface,

Saw nothing, only snow.

Hares' prints lead me on,

Lead me to this folly

Red berries on it,

The christmas holly:

I shall go into a hare,

With sorrow and sych

And meickle, meckle care;

And I shall go in the Devil's name,

Ay, while I go, I come home again.

Sometimes phantasma

Strip my wits away,

Sometimes for a minute,

Often for a day

Glad to be rid of them

Pfff they are gone.

My wits, for a minute,

My wits, for a song.