We Sit Unhackled, Drunk and Mad to Edit

Notions of freedom are tied up with drink.
Our ideal life contains a tavern
Where man may sit and talk or just think
All without fear of the nighted wyvern;
Or yet another tavern where it appears
There are no No Trust signs, no No Credit.
And, apart from the unlimited beers,
We sit unhackled, drunk and mad to edit
Tracts of a really better land where one
May drink a finer, ah, an undistilled wine,
That subtly intoxicates without pain,
Weaving the vision of the unassimilable inn
Where we may drink forever without owing
With the door open, and the wind blowing.

by

Malcolm Lowry
Late of the Bowery
His prose was flowery
And often glowery
He lived, nightly, and drank, daily,
And died playing the ukelele.