A Poem for Patrick’s Day
As always, the choices are limited to maudlin, drunk, and maudlin drunk. I choose drunk.
Rounds
Carol Ann Duffy
Eight pints
of lager, please,
and, of draught Guinness, nine;
two glasses of pale ale—a squeeze
of lemon in that port—a dry white wine,
four rums, three G-and-T’s, a vodka—that’s the lot.
On second thoughts, you’d better give me one more double scotch.
A half
of scrumpy here,
and over there a stout.
I think we’re ready for more beer;
ten brandies, three martinis—no, my shout!
A triple advocaat with lemonade and lime
and six Bacardis—make that twelve, I’ve just noticed the time.
Six calves
of Harlsberg—fast—
pine bitter shandies—tents—
and make the landies barge; a vast
treasure of mipple X, ten meme de crenthes,
nine muddy blaries and, of winger gine, a wealth.
Got that? And then the rame again all sound and one yourself.