Martinis are my wonder drug of choice--
experience requires no further proof.
I feel sophisticated and aloof
and something smooths the edges of my voice
beyond that first sour sip. Like Cary Grant
I raise an eyebrow, light a cigarette
and instantly more than my lips are wet.
Each debutante becomes a sycophant
to my suave, worldly ways and derring-do.
There's something in it neither age nor youth
can quite explain--though its effects are sure.
And whether it's the gin or the vermouth,
or something psychological, it's true:
Whatever ails--martinis are the cure.
2 comments:
Hey I just stumbled upon your site after looking for a review for Lady Chatterley's Lover and I'm reading through your poems and I really enjoy them! That sentence must be horrible to get through for a lit-geek, sorry :)
Thanks for stopping by, and thanks for reading! As I liked to say, "They can't all be gems" (TCABG), but that's kind of the point. Please feel free to comment on anything you like. It's great to know people are reading them.
Best,
Scott "Sonnet Boy" Standridge
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