King of Burbon and Regret

Hark! Not to moonlit sonnets I incline,
Nor sweetened oaths of ladies fair and bright,
But to the alley's filth, the tavern's wine,
Where shadows dance in dim and flickering light.

No velvet cloaks nor polished wit I wear,
Just grimy knuckles, stained with cheap red wine,
My ink, a bile that bleeds upon the page,
Of fallen souls and passions serpentine.

The scene is cracked, the stars above are dust,
Mere cobwebs strung across the city's jaw,
Where broken hearts, like fallen angels thrust,
For scraps of grace the cruel gods never saw.

No Ophelia fair, no Juliet's soft sigh,
Just drunkards groaning, weary of the sting,
And laughter born of teethless mouths that lie,
Echoing hollow in the night's cold ring.

So fill the tankard, let the dregs ignite,
For beauty fades, and love's a gambler's dice,
Raise a toast, you rogues, unto the night,
And drown your sorrows in the ditch's vice.

Forget fair Titania's moonlit dream,
This city's scene is paved with broken glass,
No sylphs nor fairies flit in this dark scheme,
Only the wind that whispers curses as it passes.

Thus, I, the King of Bourbon and Regret,
With pen of pain and verse of grimy grit,
Spit in the sight of heavens false ballet,
And sing the symphony of souls that never fit.

For in this pit of concrete and despair,
Where hearts are embers turned to ashes cold,
The truth, a flame that sears my flesh, I bare,
A sonnet sculpted from the streets of gold.