In the hour when the lamps burn low and the city forgets its cares, A gentleman may seek the sweeter realms beyond the mortal stairs. Come, let us drift… The pipe is lit, the ember glows a soft and amber red, Laudanum’s sweet nectar flows, and worldly woes are fled. The walls recede like velvet curtains drawn at close of play, And appetite awakens fierce, demanding its full sway. I call for figs from distant shores, for oysters iced and bright, For truffles black as midnight sin, for claret poured by candlelight. The belly growls a merry tune, the senses dance in thrall, No morsel small, no portion mean devour I must them all. High times, high times, in the haze we ride, Unstoppable appetite, no curb, no guide. The pipe calls soft, the craving swells, We feast till dawn, and all is well. High times… high times… The room begins its gentle spin, the chandelier a whirl, I rise to pace the Persian rug in patterns strange and pearl. I speak to ferns as though old friends, confess my hidden fears, Then laugh aloud at nothing much, and wipe away the tears. A sudden urge to pen a verse upon the wallpaper’s bloom, With quill dipped deep in claret wine, beneath the gaslight gloom. The cat regards me with disdain, yet I compose a sonnet grand To praise her whiskers, sleek and fine—such whims the mind hath planned. High times, high times, in the haze we ride, Unstoppable appetite, no curb, no guide. The pipe calls soft, the craving swells, We feast till dawn, and all is well. High times… oooh high times… They speak of moderation in their clubs of oak and brass, Yet never know the rapture found when appetite holds class. I eat until the stars themselves seem morsels I could claim, Then drift once more into the smoke, unburdened by a name. No shame attends this gentle vice, no judgement shall intrude; For in these hours of sweet excess, the soul is quiet, and renewed. The clock strikes three, the embers fade, yet hunger lingers near; I summon cheese from distant caves, and bread both dark and clear. I dance a waltz with shadows long, my partner made of air, Then fall upon the chaise longue, laughing without care. The dawn may creep with sober light, and duty call once more, But I have tasted paradise upon this velvet shore. Let moralists in parlours preach their doctrine stern and tight— I choose the pipe, the feast, the dream, and call it pure delight. High times, high times, in the haze we ride, Unstoppable appetite, no curb, no guide. The pipe calls soft, the craving swells, We feast till dawn… and all is well. High times… high times… High… times… The hour had grown late, I, Richmond, lay sprawled upon the chaise longue in a state most unbecoming of my station, yet utterly content. Around me lay the glorious wreckage of the evening’s delights: Oyster shells scattered across the floor like fallen moons upon a midnight sea, Truffle crumbs dusting the Persian weave in dark, fragrant constellations, A half-finished sonnet scrawled in claret upon the wallpaper by my own hand, bold and unsteady, The pipe still warm beside my open palm, its ember long since faded to ash, And—good heavens—a feather boa I had inexplicably draped across the fern in the corner, as though the poor plant were my most trusted confidante of the night. There I slept, the sleep of one most thoroughly sated, A gentle smile lingering upon my lips, Surrounded by the beautiful detritus of high times most thoroughly enjoyed. When dawn began its quiet intrusion, my faithful butler entered with his usual discretion. He drew the heavy curtains against the unwelcome light, Cleared away the evidence of my revelry with the utmost care and silence, And placed a pot of strong black coffee upon the table —ready, as always, for the inevitable return of sobriety. For even the most indulgent master, he knows full well, Must eventually face the morning. Though one suspects—nay, one is quite certain— That the appetite shall awaken once more With the very next twilight. Such is the gentle cycle of indulgence, and I make no apology for it.
