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micropatterns of nature 

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Just like French writer Emile Zola,
or Bloom and all his boon-companions,
James Joyce drank never Popa Pola,
rather mountain dew from Irish canyons.

Did his fantastic word, so artistic,
arise from alcoholic intuition?
Has his story, so very mystic,
been wet-nursed with distilled nutrition?

When moonshine becomes the essence of life,
a man soon looses all his wits,
neglects his home, children and wife,
and spends the night on pavement shits.

Lies Finnegan then on his bier,
and Dublin’s cronies hold his wake,
drinking their whisky, so very dear,
they do not see that life they fake.

Once addicted to spiritual pleasure
alcohol turns into best friend,
and then every further measure
is one step, towards, the end.