Baci n. 63

As often as love and passion are the driving forces behind poetry, sometimes we poets just feel like being a little silly. That being said, the content of "Baci n. 63" is not as silly as it at first appears. There is an underlying truth and beauty that speaks in part to the ale-goggles of the speaker, but more, to the deeper truth of love; of truly unconditional love.

"Baci n. 63" was written at a time when the world seemed to be conspiring against me in the most nefarious of ways. I was broke, well into my second month of depravation in the City scrounging every resource I had, calling in favours, and swallowing a fair amount of my pride. But I found some solace in The Broken Record, a fine pub with great food, huge amounts of excellent whisky and a pool table. Anyone who knows me can tell you that this dive was just the type of place I could call home. Somehow I managed to fall in with the owner and his crew. They are a wonderful bunch of brash drinkers who were coarse and delightful in that coarseness. Blunt, honest, direct; and all far much more than that rough surface. They welcomed this lost sheep into their fine company, and I wish I could repay their kindness and company with more than this toast, but until that time; I hope this will suffice. So please enjoy this drunken toast.


Bacio n. 63
“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none."
W. Shakespeare

We are all, here, happy degenerates
And in ev'ry mode and method, lovers
With great fondness for each other... and drink.
Brothers; is this not our bar; our true home?
Do we not drink to our breadth and measure
As equals beneath the beer mat and stein?

So come, now, you dear friends, and raise your stein.
Raise it up, you filthy degenerates,
And prepare to drink your goodly measure.
Hold up a pint as should all true lovers;
Raise it here to toast our health and home
So prepare, all ye gentlemen, and drink.

But let us pause a moment ere we drink,
And be sure there is not one empty stein,
For we toast with courtesy in our home.
We are all of us fair degenerates
And of all walks and manner, are lovers,
So do wrong to none as drink your measure.

But this is neither the range nor the measure
Of the toast for which I have sought this drink.
Few are worthy of trust, though all lovers,
So if you're an honest one, raise your stein
And welcome all merry degenerates
Who, even as you, would call this place home.

We need not trust to love within our home
For our love is one born without measure
For all and every degenerate.
You must love, my friends, if you would here drink,
So raise it, raise ev'ry beer-filled stein
And pray to always be such merry lovers.

We shall call it law among we lovers.
Forever, here, within this bar called home
To never sip alone from raiséd stein.
Wrong none for any stake nor false measure
Though you need not trust he with whom you drink
For we are all alike, degenerates.

Come, degenerates, and love as lovers
Those with whom you drink. This is a rare home,
So trust, in measure, and wrong none thy stein.