“Write a poem, 12 rhyming lines, about getting increasingly drunk.”
Someone unqualified seems to be in charge of the jukebox,
But the bartender is a next level raven haired fox.
Do I want tequila, whiskey, vodka, gin?
You ready to pour? I’m going all in.
What’s this putrid sweet oppressive goo?
Sour Mix? In a Margarita? Honey, let me come around there and show you what to do.
Tequila, Cointreau, Lime juice, Ice, Kosher Salt.
Amateur. You tend bar like Rand writing about John Galt.
This is not chemistry, kid; it’s art, it’s alchemy.
Keep ‘em comin’ done right and when I tip I won’t be able to see.
“Whoo!” says my brain. I could do this all night!
Next morning though, tread softly and leave off the light.