Drunk.

Drunk as an earthquake, merry as a clown That joys to hear the hob-nailed cackle run From bench to bench about the steaming tent At some world-hoary jest with shaking sides And bobbing, pendulous whisker he appeared On Murphys back verandah. Red his locks, And flowing as the flaming thatch of Thor. His robe, ungirt, revealed a hairy breadth Of heaving chest and laughter such as shook To imbecility the elder gods Winked in the wandering of his rosy eye. Thrice he essayed in sportive merriment To loose his hold on the verandah post, And thrice with elephantine gambols reeled Back to his moorings. Then, with humble gait, On hands and feet, with elevated rear, He wobbled tortuously athwart the path, And with loud grampus-splashings set his bulk In comfortable attitude to damn The burbling water-race. There raised his voice And sang with quavering thunder to the sky, Hic! Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, little star!
David McKee Wright. Maoriland. The Bulletin, 30 December 1909.