Dazzled by Falstaff’s debonair,
I sit at the bar, trying not to stare.
So, wait, he sits in the chair right there and tells me he’s had quite a scare.
Tells me he must have someone to talk with, being on the verge of losing his lid.
Recounting problems he’s had without money, he spits on the floor, that damn attorney.
A slew of suffering, slaughter, and fear, can I buy him a drink to promote some cheer?
Cheering him on is something to do, but I’d just lost my job; I’m broke, too.
Together we count our meager glitter and discuss Confucius—experience is bitter.
Indeed, suffering builds character, we surely agree, but a big glass of ale could make it sweet.
On the subject of character, Falstaff grins; I’ve got you beat, ole pal, my dear friend.
No, I decide; I’d rather have gin.
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