To sink into a dark depression, crying in my ale?
To sit here in my house alone and, silently, to wail?
The choice is bleak.
If alcoholic moodiness is not to seize the field,
If I'm to be of any use, I can't afford to yield:
A shield which breaks the bearer is a hopeless choice of shield,
And poor technique.
I cannot fight this thing alone: I'd end up in a mess,
Too ill-equipped and hurting to metabolise distress.
It's good to have some friends around to dissipate the stress:
I'm glad of that.
To those whose patience I exploit by saying what I say,
To those who hug and cuddle me to wish the pain away,
To those whose warm and thoughtful comments help me through the day,
I raise my hat.