The Gods are to be praised
for the delicious honey wine,
the horn many a time is raised,
makes you feeling strong and fine.

You’re in the mood to feel the need
to speak in terryfying rhyme.
For another bottle of the mead
you’re willing to commit a crime.

All night you sing and dance
carefree until daybreak.
Mead’s run out and so the trance;
your hangover is awake.

When day’s replaced by darknes all around
then new thirst demands its dire tribute
The horn is filled, the night so good,
the hangover dilligently to be drowned.