The verse of Keith J.
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Liqueur Tokay |
Why We Drink Alcohol |
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I felt a little frail on Sunday morning The mouth was like a bird cage when I woke Couldn’t lift my head up for the agony I thought at first I’d had a bloody stroke But I was firing on all six at bedtime Can’t imagine how I got that way Could it be I’d got the equine influenza Then the penny dropped, liqueur tokay !! My mate’s back from a trip to Rutherglen Reckons that it’s liquid gold, this stuff Complementary to the mints and coffee So is it any wonder I feel rough Pre dinner started with a beer or couple Possibly it was three or maybe four Just to get the gastric juices flowing Anyhow, no one was keeping score Then when the entrées came along We had to make a switch To a South Australian cabernet Or shiraz, I can’t tell which Though one thing was for certain It’s colour was clearly red By the time main course was over We’d put another three to bed Dessert of course were crepes suzettes With a bottle of botrytis sticky Well, stickies comes in half bottles So, ok we had two bottles - picky Which is about where I came in With that glass of liqueur tokay I shouldn’t touch the bloody stuff I’m bound to learn some day
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Scientists with their grey dust coats And immeasurable IQ’s Determine most emphatically From the data they peruse That the water we should always Drink a litre of each day Contains Escherichia coli That’s E Coli so they say Which is a nasty old bacteria Most commonly found in faeces Dumped randomly in the waterways By the wonderful human species So when we drink that daily litre Instead of, lets say, wine Those boogies are deposited In our lower intestine Triggering gastroenteritis That may last for days and days Thereby dumping more E Coli Into our waterways In the course of every twelve months With that litre every day It’s fact a fact that every one of us Will put three pounds of shit away But alcohol on the other hand Whether whiskey, wine or beer Is subject to purification Unlike water, most severe The fermentation for example Of the grape is guaranteed To make that nasty e coli Look for elsewhere to breed So we who live on alcohol Sometimes babble verbal shit But unlike water drinkers We won’t be full of it |
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A Smidge Thanks |
Serious About Golf |
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I see your glass is empty Some more red wine for you Followed by her coy reply Yes please, a smidge will do Was that a smidge I hear her say What can that possibly be A metric measurement perhaps Spelling out precise degree I’ve never really come to grips With all this metric crap Describe someone as six foot six Well, you’re talking a big chap But if the cops seek out a miscreant Described in centimeters tall Is it a giant they look for Or someone really small Or if the weather bureau says We had thirty ml of rain I wouldn’t have a single clue How much went down the drain When next the glass is empty The mystery shall intensify Another glass of red my dear ? A tiny smidge is her reply A smidge I thought was miniscule Dwarfed by the knees of bees But a tiny smidge would indicate That a smidge comes in degrees Close observation then reveals In surprise much more than sorrow A smidge of red wine disappears Like there is no tomorrow The speed of its departure Forms your conclusion that A smidge is anywhere between A thimble and a vat So a smidge of wine it would appear Is a purely relative measure Depending how much is required To induce euphoric pleasure When next your bibulous partner Says a smidge will do just fine She’s giving you the go ahead To fill it to the plimsoll line
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There were four serious golfers As long as anyone could remember Every mid week competition From January through December They would assemble on the first tee Throw the balls up to decide A four ball partner for the day And play for money on the side No matter what sort of weather Mother Nature chose to throw Rain or hail or tempest blast The intrepid four would show Halfway through the round this day The competition’s tense and tight When down the nearby thoroughfare A hearse looms into sight Followed by a line of mourners The cortege slowly wends its way Towards the local cemetery To send the dear departed away One pauses in his backswing Puts his driver on the tee Removes his hat and quietly stands With his head bowed solemnly When the final car had disappeared He addressed his ball, eyes full of tears Funerals bother you asked his partner No, but we were married for fifty years
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In
Vino Veritas |
The
Four Legged Chicken |
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They gather every Monday night, come rain or hail or shine Drawn by a close affinity to the product of the vine They hold it up against the light to gargle, sniff and sip Marvelling at the tannins or acerbic acid grip The clichés fall like raindrops from these wine aficionados A complex blend of fruit and oak, sweaty saddles on the nose Mouldy, musty, earthy, cassis , vanilla, cherry, oak Acetic acid, wet sheep dog, wine snobbery is no joke A vibrant youthful red tinged with a purple hue A long and fruity finish, when “yuk” or “yum” would do A hollow middle palate or a spicy fruit bouquet Although they can’t distinguish twixt shiraz and cabernet Sometimes guess the maker from the subtleties of the grape ? Rubbish, they just fluked it or they know the bottle shape Express disdain if it’s not red to Russell’s mild dismay As feline micturition they dismiss the chardonnay When comes they time to pick the best their choices are diverse Some may opt a simple donkey vote or others the reverse Price will be the factor in whatever Brian may choose Whilst Dion’s nominations will reflect his Marxist views Only one thing is for certain in their judgment’s erudite They will mostly spot the difference between wines red or white
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I Stopped to visit years ago A farmer mate I used to know And driving down the farmhouse track I was taken, as they say, aback When I saw a chicken running free The sight of which fair gobsmacked me Chickens aren’ t that rare it must be said But this one was a quadruped Dollar signs transformed my eyes With visions of Kentucky fries I thought what might the Colonel pay For flocks of chickens built this way I asked the farmer, tell me mate How did this feathered freak mutate He said from my experimentation With genetic modification Of the genes to isolate The one from which legs emanate Do you realise what you’ve done I said This could be bigger than sliced bread Think what this find of yours will bring To Coq au vin or a la king I asked how do those drumsticks taste When cooked with a nice red wine baste He sadly said stuffed if I know Can’t catch the little so and so
Keith Jones 11/8/2003
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A Retirement Poem courtesy of another BRIAN'S PULLED THE PLUG |
"Survival of the Fittest" |
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Brian has quit the workforce
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Old Charlie Darwin was a clever
thinker in his day
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