Poetry Archives

Sobered a little by his violence,
And by the host who begged them to be still,
Nor injure his good name, “Max, no offence,”
They blurted, “you may leave now if you will.”
“One moment, Max,” said Franz.  “We’ve gone too far.
I ask your pardon for our foolish joke.
It started in a wager ere you came.
The talk somehow had fall’n on drugs, a jar
I brought from China, herbs the natives smoke,
Was with me, and I thought merely to play a game.