عدمت النغيل فما أدمره — Albohtry

May I be rid of that little bastard—how ruinous he is!

And how fitting for a friend to forsake him!

Whenever I say his cleverness has advanced him,

a failing besets him that holds him back.

He invited us to a vile gathering,

shameful for a man of sense to attend.

Then came a sour wine of his,

hard on the empty liver.

When its black brew is poured into glass,

then the drinking companion's cup becomes an inkwell.

You left the sun-matured wine of Qutrubbul,

and made us gulp al-Daskarah's low-grade date wine.

And why did I obey you in drinking it,

as though I had never tried it or seen it?

And why did I crave anything like it,

when I had never known myself to be greedy?

And I am not afflicted by what afflicts

you—by the blackness of the vapors!

So at last I resolved to depart,

when the hour already called for caution.

So we rose in haste, while the stars

were turning away, already sinking in retreat.

And getting through depended on a pretext,

so we nearly spent the night in the stocks.

And when I departed, the hangover loomed,

with its fierce, sleep-banishing dizzy spells.

So do not ask me about the condition

I was afflicted with—grievous and dreadful—

or the night of misery made bitter for me,

like your sheikh's night in the date basket.