There's something about a martini...

It's been quite some time since I posted anything. Getting the new (old) house in Port Hope organized and tearing my right rotator cuff in a spectacular wrestling match with a push-broom kind of cut into my time. And there was this project for my long-time client to whom I can't say no, retired or not. And I know it's kind of a cheat to fill a post with another writers work, but this is one of my favourite poems by Ogden Nash, which deals with one of my favourite times of day at the cottage. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, everyone!

A DRINK WITH SOMETHING IN IT by Ogden Nash There is something about a Martini, A tingle remarkably pleasant; A yellow, a mellow Martini; I wish that I had one at present. There is something about a Martini, Ere the dining and dancing begin, And to tell you the truth, It is not the vermouth- I think that perhaps it’s the gin. There is something about an old-fashioned That kindles a cardiac glow; It is soothing and soft and impassioned As a lyric by Swinburne or Poe. There is something about an old-fashioned When dusk has enveloped the sky, And it may be the ice, Or the pineapple slice, But I strongly suspect it’s the rye. There is something about a mint julep. It is nectar imbibed in a dream, As fresh as the bud of the tulip, As cool as the bed of the stream. There is something about a mint julep, A fragrance beloved by the lucky. And perhaps it’s the tint Of the frost and the mint, But I think it was born in Kentucky. There is something they put in a highball That awakens the torpidest brain, That kindles a spark in the eyeball, Gliding singing through vein after vein. There is something they put in a highball Which you’ll notice one day, if you watch; And it may be the soda, But judged by the odor, I rather believe it’s the Scotch Then here’s to the heartening wassail, Wherever good fellows are found; Be its mater instead of its vassal, And order the glasses around. For there’s something they put in the wassail That prevents it from tasting like wicker; Since it’s not tapioca, Or mustard, or mocha, I’m forced to conclude it’s the liquor