Of scratch and catch and whisky patch...

Роберту Бёрнсу, шотландскому виски, и страстным морям посвящается...
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Hereby, me pal, unseals the tale
By which I had long malts to sail
To find my match
Of scratch and catch…
And whisky patch I now hail.

This happened in an age or two,
When I had met a boyish woe…
I couldn’t know:
Joy can be sad –
Now patch more whisky in my head.

And then was more, I bathed in womb
Like in a liquefying gloom,
Where used to drink
My artful ink
To blend with salted prosaic…

But music strains (as bottle stains)
My body fluids count grains
To melt the hedge
Of scratch and catch…
And whisky patch cannot be blamed.

Oh, all the stuff that I have done!
And there is more – that is the charm!
Before I blot
Still have a slot
To brew more whisky in a pot.

Some take their lives too far too much
In value, purposes – as such,
But looking
From the artful gaze
I should consider blowing haze…

For there’s a reason, why the liaisons
Are not being studied on the lessons.
‘Do not be spoiled!’
‘Do behave!’
That’s how most people rave…

Thence, sail for match… of catch and scratch,
Of oiled nebs and public hair!
Why not instead
A whisky patch?
A dram won’t hurt that much, t’be fair!