They drank like gods—by which I mean they fell.
My lord would chart the stars with drunken proof,
then chart again the table’s edge, the bench, the wall,
declare them wrong, and call the stumble truth.
He swore the sky was his, or so he fought,
measuring heavens cup by cup, until sundown,
till even Saturn reeled. Young Kepler watched—
smiled thin as ink—and wrote the good parts down.
Good Lynx, you rose with all a noble air—
antlers in the candlelight, your crown awry.
You lapped the cup, turned and climbed the stairs,
then fell like Icarus, much too drunk to fly.
All the while, two fools disputing charts—
your constellation, Lynx, burns beyond their stars.