It’s true I bring serenity,
And hang around the stars
But yet I live in misery;
You’ll find me behind bars
With thieves and villains I consort
In prison I’ll be found
But I would never go to court,
Unless there’s more than one
Whether old Homer tippled wine or beer, Julep or cider, history is not clear; But plain it is-the bard, though want to roam, But for one liquid, never had left home. What is it?