My Book

Before I drink myself to death,      God, let me finish up my Book!      At night, I fear, I fight for breath,      And wake up whiter than a spook;      And crawl off to a bistro near,      And drink until my brain is clear.      Rare Absinthe! Oh, it gives me strength      To write and write; and so I spend      Day after day, until at length      With joy and pain I'll write The End:      Then let this carcase rot; I give      The world my Book - my Book will live.      For every line is tense with truth,      There's hope and joy on every page;      A cheer, a clarion call to Youth,      A hymn, a comforter to Age:      All's there that I was meant to be,      My part divine, the God in me.      It's of my life the golden sum;      Ah! who that reads this Book of mine,      In stormy centuries to come,      Will dream I rooted with the swine?      Behold! I give mankind my best:      What does it matter, all the rest?      It's this that makes sublime my day;      It's this that makes me struggle on.      Oh, let them mock my mortal clay,      My spirit's deathless as the dawn;      Oh, let them shudder as they look . . .      I'll be immortal in my Book.      And so beside the sullen Seine      I fight with dogs for filthy food,      Yet know that from my sin and pain      Will soar serene a Something Good;      Exultantly from shame and wrong      A Right, a Glory and a Song.