Magic is what happens when the sun rises,

Dawn breathing golden dust onto rooftops.

In the morning, the bottles stay up on the shelf,

Locked away in a cupboard

Where they belong.

Magic is what happens when the sun blazes,

Bathing trees in a honey yellow glow.

At midday, a bottle or two's in the trash,

The rest in the cupboard

Where they belong.

Magic is what happens when the sun sinks,

The moon beckons at ocean waves, drowning your sobriety.

In the night, the bottles are empty on the floor,

Drunkenness swims in your bloodstream, and I am

Locked away in the cupboard

Where I belong.