Follicle to Fundament
I’m not James Bond or
Jimmy Beard,
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.
Chardonnay 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?
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.