I want a
Gut rotter.
An eye popping,
stomach twisting,
sacharine enhanced
little fizzy
number
that make me belch
frequently
and fart inbetween
spasms of idle whims.
“Ah”, replied the barthief.
“You want a coke”
he said smugly.
“Nope” replied the punter.
“I’d like a
well matured,
oak vat vintage,
fiesty, golden sweet,
slightly soured
critic on ice.”
“You want lemon with that?”
asked the barthief.
“Yeah, slice it up.”
