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Home > Archive > Words of the week > November 2003

November 2003

3 November 2003

We love whisky
Single malt, Cask strength, independent blends and limited bottlings,
In any weather we are in this room together
For we love whisky.

I don’t know why.

We love whisky.
Fortnightly and voluntarily
we fill the club’s coffers to taste a dram… or five
For drinks I am supposed to write poems, to date I haven’t written a line.

Ahem…

Wine comes from grapes, this I know
ice wine, I imagine, is related to snow
there’s sauvignon, shiraz, chardonnay and merlot
they’re just words, like the drink, they just come and they go.
We are not a wine society
We avoid tall glasses and sobriety.

We love whisky

Gin tastes nice with lemons and ice
Paint thinner or panty remover, any brand will suffice
‘Cuz its all about the high and not about the price,
The flavour, or the Bombay spice.

I don’t care about the subtly of vodka, it has one function:
Vodka before beer, you’re in the clear,
beer before vodka everything vradkrafghegaghga
Getting drunk.
Period.
Can’t be worth shit 'cuz they mix with sugar
Pump it into clear glass bottles
And give it stupid ass monikers.
Is that any way to show a liquor you respect her?
What happened to Matt’s “Hi,” and “How are you?”
Vodka is a conspirators poison, a communist elixir.
Needs fancy brand names and masking mixers
A drink for ladies, little boys, and for guaranteed hangovers.

We love whisky

Beauty on the eye, the nose, the palate
The tease, the taste the finish…
Speyside, Highland,
Lowland, Island
A beautiful spirit that doesn’t make the Vikings violent.

It makes them beautiful.
Beautiful held up to light, tinting amber what once shone white
Or keeping pale in bourbon baste
Or dark sherry face, a meniscus waist

Heather and honey

Beautiful to nose and to taste
A Flower basket, or a basket case
A pungent peat, A Blinding mace
What kind of funk is spilling over your face?

Having said a few words I feel much better
About poetry without a pipe or a cardigan sweater
So enjoy each dram, your liver to imbue
'Cuz you bring as much to whisky as whisky brings to you.

Sam Simmons
6 November 2003

20 November 2003

Know this: I feel ill.

Where did the guest speaker go?
Monday Jess tells me,
“Better be thirsty this Thursday.
Be provocative
Be ready to rock the socks off of…”
But I am sick
And I feel like it.

Flatmates insisted, “C’mon Sammy, its whisky society”
It helps numb the pain, but this dram is killing me.

But I am obligated to make this evening narrated
Or else my medicine gets eliminated.
So some words…
I’ll let you feel the drink first, think worse
things could happen than laughing at words.

I might be sick tomorrow morning but you’ll be hungover.
What does Friday morning mean to you?

Do you wake up with regret,
Sheets wet with salty sweat,
Forgotten that cute lass you met?

Or was it a lad? You feel so bad
You couldn’t care less, your skull collapsing
Under vice grip stress.

“Why, oh why did I drink last night?
That absinthe made me lose my sight,
And now I cant tell eggshell from white”

You feel guilty and meek,
You even think about going to Church this week
Or abstaining from alcohol, becoming a Sikh
Your future in this WOLS begins to look bleak.

Is that your Friday morning? Do not lie.
Why oh why oh why did I?

Or do you wake up missing that last taste?
Dropped twenty quid, but not a penny to waste.
You did nothing wrong, you repent no sin,
Tumbler’s drained and then flooded again,
And as you left the bar got one more shot in.
A night to remember even tho you’ve forgotten.
That is a Friday morning to aspire to.

So let’s enjoy, misses and misters
Take your medicine, ingest your elixirs.
We will not be kept from the Water of Life
By Germs , Germans, or Jura
Right?

So don’t feel bad about feel bad Fridays,
Just know that I will feel worse,
And tomorrow morning when you’re in bed
A third of us will have to work.

>>>>>

One last thing
Bring your wallet to Scotmid,
The business geniuses behind the gig
Are selling a fruity after desert swig:
70cls of Glen Moray will cost you 20
while a litre is 14 quid.

Sold.

Sam Simmons
20 November 2003