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8
Come let us fuddle all our ⟨noses⟩,
Drink ourselves quite out of debt.
When grim Death comes looking for us,
We are roving o’er our bowls:
Bacchus joining in the chorus
Death, begone here’s nought but souls.
God-like Bacchus thus commanding,
Trembling death away shall fly,
Ever after, understanding
Drinking souls can never die.
FINIS
