— as sung by Helen Merrill (1965)
1.
You’re my thrill,
my joint, my shot, my magic pill.
I dwell in that gaudy den
of smoke and mirrors where, when
you close my eyes,
I take a trip
to paradise:
a casino where I always win
as long as I’m within
the grip
of the labyrinthine dream I’m in.
I may never get wise,
may never disbelieve these lies.
Yet I know I must get high.
2.
Admit it. You’re one of us.
You didn’t miss the bus.
You need to get drunk
on wine or weed or stronger junk.
Maybe you’re addicted to kinky sex,
bouncing your checks,
blaming your ex,
imitating Oedipus Rex.
Or maybe you need a fix
of speed, acid, ecstasy, sin,
coke, angel dust, gin,
or the white magic of heroin.
“You’re my thrill. . .
Where’s my will?”
To you therefore I repeat
the sweet
immortal words of Charles Baudelaire,
and declare,
drink in hand, bidding you goodbye:
you must get high.
[from the Spring / Summer 2019 issue of Literary Matters]