Wild Luck

So there I was not, and now, am found. In the middle, all became a delirious delight or delightful delirium. Getting to me, as it does, I had become the cliche of every rake, losing the right to ever call Apollo’s logic a gift, ‘Wine, women and song,’ had a ring to it, still, with quick effects of sprouts and morning splendor tea; in the cards, I was dealt the hanged man and shouted, “Twenty-one!”