I swig no crafted microbrew,

no bottle sleek with booze:

I still know where my house-keys are;

I haven't lost my shoes:

I stay awake past four a m,

until the morning news:

      I've got those insomniacal

      twelve-step hopelessly romantic

      Catholic boyhood blues.

I'm watching the detectives, but

I'm awfully short on clues,

a member of the human race

who hasn't paid his dues,

a troubadour with much to gain

and not a lot to lose:

      I've got those up-all-night

      unrequitably misdirected

      Catholic boyhood blues.

I list my daily gratitudes

and mind my Ps and Qs:

the world invites me to a dance,

and how can I refuse?

There is a balm in Gilead

for every bump and bruise,

      even for those slumber-starved

      celibate ambidextrous

      Catholic boyhood blues.

I'm not a poet laureate,

Day Lewis or Ted Hughes,

but guzzle coffee by the quart

and write while others snooze:

a solid week of restful sleep,

that's something I could use!

      I've got those climbing-the-wall

      sober-sonneteering love-addicted

      Catholic boyhood blues.