Your master died from drinking too much;
now you have followed in his steps.
A mound of dregs will be your grave,
your tombstone inscribed with the " Ode in Praise of Wine. "

Unsteady on your feet, you tripped and stumbled,
your face flushed, your liver wasted.
Now you are gone, not even your shadow remains;
there is only your portrait, drawn in my poem.