Here's another delightful Chinese poem. The poet finds an excuse for his own drunkenness.
White hairs cover my temples,
I am wrinkled and gnarled beyond repair,
And though I have got five sons,
They all hate paper and brush.
A-shu is eighteen:
For laziness there is none like him.
A-hsüan does his best,
But really loathes the fine arts.
Yung and Tuan are thirteen,
But do not know six from seven.
T'ung-tzu in his ninth year
Is only concerned with things to eat.
If heaven treats me like this,
What can I do but fill my cup?
T'ao Ch'ien (372-427) trans: A Waley