As dry as the Arabian desert, not a drop to be found. His nose was quite fond of a fine bouquet, but had thirsted for far too long. Days had passed with no respite, not a single note or even a dirge – an ode to the dipsomaniac. Trudging through the barren wastes, he began to hum his A, B, C’s… A is for Absinth, B-eautiful Bourbon, C cherished Catawba, and D Dear Drambouie… a mournful hope, an attempt to turn water into wine… M shines the Moon, N never dry! Toes dragging through grains of sand, alas not wheat! …V various vodkas, W wet my Whistle… Knees shaking, sweat pouring, eyes burning. “More!” He quakes… Z I’ll even settle for a Zima! A revolving door of patrons moseying in and stumbling out beckons. Finally, a light at the end of his long, dark tunnel!
“Hello, Mr. Otis. Back for another? Your tab from this morning is still open.”
Ivory Calla 