lunacy in their hennessy

and that silver liquor pours from the moon through panes of my somethingorother (maybe mind... or room, never been outside of either), some call it (rhymes-with-spite), I call it drunk with envy, but only he knows for sure and sometimes, when it doesn't stop slipping through doors of (how-do-you-do) I call it mine, I have bottles-or-pockets full of the stuff, and when he (no one) isn't ever looking I slip it in their drinks and abscond into the cloak of the night (pulling it tight around me), and then when no one (he always) sees me I admit it was nothing (they couldn't handle) so they put cold glass to their lips and tip twilight into their gullets, all the while I'm laughing up a storm off the coast of Tripoli (all the way from here), but they'll never see me while I'm wearing the smiling night around my shoulders, it always puts them in such a mood (you know?), they drank most of it, but most of it is also worn on their faces, and mostly dripping from off their skin too, all of it, though, is still with me, in my bottles-or-pockets-or-maybe-even-mind, and only that which is in their eyes is left by morning.