London's bright young people are reported to be now looking for a new cocktail capable of producing a new kind of "kick."
First I tried a Dry Martini; But found not one teeny-weeny Semblance of a kick in any kind of this. Then I sampled a Manhattan; But 'twas much the same with that 'un; And as impotent I found an Angel's Kiss. So I drank the menu thro'; Side-car, Bronx and Gin-and-Two. Such innocuous concoctions left me sad. And I yearned with eager yearning For a cocktail, sudden, burning, That might give a man a jolt and make him glad. Then a fellow, somewhat seedy, Down at heel and seeming needy, said, "If it's a kick you're seeking, come with me." So we went into a garden That to me seemed partly Arden, Partly, Eden; and we sat beneath a tree. Here my friend produced a bottle, Drew the stopper from its throttle, And, pouring out a nip, said, "Drink this, quick!" No least hesitation followed; I threw back my head and swallowed. Oh, boy! Oh, res and furies! What a kick! Green lightnings and blue blazes! Fierce stars in fiery hazes! Pink elephants that flapped about the sky! ... When I woke, some five hours later, Feeling queer at the equator, "Great Scott! How do you make that stuff?" said I. "First of all," he proudly stated, "Take a pint of methylated, Stir in varnish, an' some 'air oil, just a drop. Then, if pep should still be lackin', Add turps, an' a tin of blackin'. Me own invention, called the Fitzcray Flop."
|Copyright © Perry Middlemiss 2002-07|