The first cup moistens my lips and throat,
the second cup breaks my loneliness,
the third cup searches my barren entrail but to find
therein some five thousand volumes of odd ideographs.
The fourth cup raises a slight perspiration,
— all the wrong of life passes away through my pores.
At the fifth cup I am purified;
the sixth cup calls me to the realms of the immortals.
The seventh cup — ah, but I could take no more!
I only feel the breath of cool wind that rises in my sleeves.

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About Klassy

How Klassy got her groove back.

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