Yester-night I met a moderne temperance partizan,
who advized me to swear off wine, for in wine there is no truth.
and that I shoulde choose what grape-vines to harvest fruits.
for people prefer those with bespoke "We-People" pedigree in their country
in response to that typicall American rustick remark.
I downed a whole bottle of the vilest fermentatione
from seedy Londoners' moonshine back-alley; made with
venerably dead cockney-school poets' grapes.
bitter; for in England there was lived there no longer true poetry.
but I wonder why would I crave it now?
What impeded me to speak English as I please?