I like to find out what kind of drink I’ll get
I’ve ordered seven drinks tonight, and yet
Every bet I make is a losing bet.
“A gimlet!” he proclaims
(He always remembers at least some of their names.)
Is bartending an art? Then every drink shames
That strange professional. My alcohol games
Vary so much. A nice glass of white
(sangria, not wine) – is the starter tonight:
sure, the drink is purple to my sight,
but surely it’s Moscato, right?
I hear some drinkers barely care,
As long as there’s a drink out there.
But I don’t drink for oblivion. I don’t dare;
If I ordered Everclear, I know how I’d fare:
“Some Amaretto,” my waiter would smile,
And my 190% vodka he’d defile
With flavors in the kind of incredible pile
Which makes swallowing ever-so-vile.
There’s no drink so simple that my waitery friend
Couldn’t destroy it from end to undrinkable end
Laws of physics and bartending bend
And no palate will ever recover or mend.
But bring it! O, bring it, my dinery pal;
Bring it you will; and drink it I shall.
It’s time for a shootout at the Tonsil Corral,
Drinking’s anesthesia from life’s Root Canal.
