I drink from wisdom’s third glass: A poem 

I can drink from wisdom’s third glass 

and still drive steady in rusty, old cars 

through torrential hale, in the wee hours 

and all the breathyliser tests I seem to pass 

And you can take me for a colossal fool, 

I am no accidental pianist sitting on a stool 

I can tell you that all my cock and bull 

baffles brains that were geniuses at school 

 I knew the game and what squarely became 

of seventy-nine that tried to ensnare my dame 

And I left them feeling sore and all too lame 

I got fifty-eight wallowing in the same shame 

I’m no good at math, but am good at numbers 

that the jolly old fella up there left me encumbered 

I’m not yet as old as, but as strong as sixty-four 

When I was only seventeen, I began to know