Follicle to Fundament
I’m not James Bond or
But I know what to drink with weird;
There was a list which I was sent,
From follicle to fundament:
White or red?
Your meal’s still dead;
Just get fed,
And go to bed.
Chardonay with fish filet?
Chops with Vosne Romanee?
Whether to drink old or young?
(Rampling or Christensen?)
When I drink there is no doubt,
I place my order and make it stout:
Guinness and a Jameson—
What was it that you called me, then?
Cape buffalo, lion, antelope,
I’d even order for the Pope;
ChristBlood singing in a chalice,
Sweet red wine drunk without malice.
In to Bourbon’s slurried well,
Amber pours and secrets tell
Of intermittent deprivations,
And mean slags pouring thin potations.
I know a spot to sup with chums,
With demis, mags and jeroboams;
To start, How about an aperitif?
Kir? Why not? But, make it brief;
And should you want a postprandial,
The green stuff’s good after a while:
Absinthe makes the tart grow fond;
La Fee Verte waves her magic wand;
And if there is no place to go,
We’ll stay inside with Veuve Clicquot;
Coffee, grappa, chocolate cake—
The last request that waiter’s take:
It’s time to drink our rations up:
To lullabies which fill our cup.
My judo opiate infused singing rants grating her nerves like Surf-in M Wilson’s uncapped nails on an abandoned blackboard. Her threats have not stopped my 24 hour serenade of but three tunes sung on heavy rotation, “The Rebel Johnny Yuma,”
A tenth grade education won't get you No kinda job here in big D
hunger pains and prides are things
that just don't go hand in hand for long
And on the back side of Dallas A hungry small town girl can't find a home
On the back side of Dallas nervously she takes another pill
On the back side of Dallas tonight like other nights She drinks her fill
well you can't dig me you can't dig nothin'. do you want the real thing, or are you just talkin'?