Sometimes, when inspiration runs dry, I drink classical music until my words spill out.

In time of rain I come:I can sing among the flowers:I utter my song: my heart is glad.Water of flowers foams over the earth:My heart was intoxicated.

My mind may be sober, but my confidence is high!

I have become intoxicated again.You are such a potent wine, my friend.To escape your withdrawal effects,tomorrow I will drink in excess.Alas, why make me love?I was aware, conscious, and sensible before.I am ill by cause of this illusion.The devil plays tricks on me more and more.I was a harp you immaculately plucked at will.Your score, the nightingale song withinnotes composed to imprison and bear me wings.Oh, if only they could hear how it sings!I am now beyond parched.My strings left untouched.You are no longer an oasis, my friend,but a mirage soon coming to an end.

My voice falls into Southern drawl when I am tired, drunk, or in trouble. Too often, my accent is attacked by all three of these realities.