There is a distillery in our brains

Its cane and malt, its hops and grains

Are the stuff our lives are made of.

Blizzard and snow, bush fires or drought

Matches won by penalty shoot-out

Fortunes lost at toss of a coin

Over these and their likes, you are no doyen.

The fuel for this distillery?

Your emotions. Willy-nilly

You stoke the fires as you vent your spleen.

And another dram drip into the vat –unseen

The master brewer is not the stars

Not yet the gods. He is you, your very self.

The final brew has no choice. It must be

Bitter bile or sweet honey. But you can choose

The magic potion, which can vouchsafe the taste:

Your intentions, your memories and your reactions.