Sheer Joy.

Now, drinks the stuff that makes a lass
sillier than silliest ass,  
she'll not hear the breeze tune the trees  
to play music within the leaves,  
nor see a work of art can be found  
in clouds when eyes are on the ground,  
when stumbling to feel her way  
hear the birds chorusing the break of day.  
 
Drink frees a lass from mortal dread  
makes music in her empty head,  
then silence isn't quite as loud  
as that within some glass-clinking crowd,  
it loosens tongue but she can't think  
or use a pen, it's wasted ink,  
all true, and when drink is employed  
can't hear her cat purr, for sheer joy.