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.’