O ants crawl my drunken arms
and they let Van Gogh sit in a cornfield
and take Life out of the world with a shotgun,
ants crawl my drunken arms
and they sent Rimbaud
to running guns and looking under rocks for gold,
O ants crawl my drunken arms,
they put Pound in a nuthouse
and made Crane jump into the sea in his pajamas,
ants, ants, crawl my drunken arms
as our schoolboys scream for Willie Mays
instead of Bach.
(from On Drinking by Charles Bukowski)
7½*/10. The complete review is here.
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