Black-bile and green glass
Clear and amber scramble past
The gaping scraping open throat
Of the bottle-bankís sepulchral gloat.
Slide whoosh smash and tinkle
Stale dregs splash and sprinkle
The sweet and sour acrid smell
And sound of a liverís death-knell.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Raymond Hume
would be pleased to hear