Vice

With a tummy full of bread,
What verses can one write?
For no songs do Muses spread
If the meal is not light.

With too many thoughts to dream,
One can barely move a finger,
For solely thinking burns off steam,
Only seated do dreams linger.

With a belly full of wine,
Many songs come and go,
Still none does a poet sign,
Birth and death they undergo.

With too many friends around,
Evening is never a bore,
Till they hear the Fortune's sound,
For the night they stay no more.

With the short time one spends,
They ought to be wise,
For each minute augments,
A man's rise or demise.

With too many days to count,
No pain would remain brief,
For the end brings about,
Life's why and death's relief.