The palmwine tapster comes with gourds of inebriation 
He summons jugs of whimsies and supplications 
And the town comes but the poets are drunk 
So I advised the poets to sit with me and recite a song 
For Bacchus and muse and our devastation 
But a female songstress ventured beyond the rest 
With a song that drew tears from the restrained and the smashed 
held the palmfronds of the lofty heights 
I cannot recall when a lady graced my bed 
Waiting at the wine post of the tapster 
I wait for the lady who called in my dreams