Yes, we'll pic-nic in the woods,
And touch on the diviner moods,
We will forget that we are clay,
And live the fulness of our day.
On ladders of pure Niersteiner,
On Burgundy or simple Claret,
(Than which on Earth there's nothing finer,
When waiters stand not by to mar it),
We'll mount diviner and diviner,
Until at last on men we glance
Olympian-like, electively,
And 'gin to laugh, and shout, and dance,
And get locked up, effectively.