Whisky and poetry

[marriedmalt]

Be there not a poet here
who reckons meter by the ear?
Accent, meter, scansion, feet,
as much as rhyme make poems neat.
Each line as much as you are able's
s'posed to have the same syllàbles.
No excuse if you don't scan,
just because you want to fit as much into any given line as you possibly can.

Hmmm... I guess not everyone enjoys bad poetry. Fortunately, I do!

[Mr Tattie Heid]

Sometimes I feel like I've wandered onto the Vogon flight deck.... But don't let me rain on your parade.

Andy gets it, though, and I'm not surprised. Guid stuff!

[C57]

Aaarrggghh! Not Vogon poetry ! Spare us that....











Oh, you didn't

[andyt]

Ah but Vogon poetry is only the third worst poetry in the Universe, I believe that Grunthos the Flatulent can claim second place with his "Ode to a small dram of Bruichladdich Black Art that I found one Midsummer Morning after thinking that the bottle was empty"

[C57]

Ah but Vogon poetry is only the third worst poetry in the Universe, I believe that Grunthos the Flatulent can claim second place with his "Ode to a small dram of Bruichladdich Black Art that I found one Midsummer Morning after thinking that the bottle was empty"

[orange_barnet]

Here's another piece of o_b poetry:

Now what shall I have?

A Speyside, a Highland, an Islay?
Of which shall I have a wee dram?
Tomatin, Tullibardine, Caol Ila?
Notes of peat, spice, honey or jam?
Which flavour do I wish to savour?
Vanilla, butterscotch, marzipan?
It's flowers and fruit that I'll favour
So I'll pour me a Peacock Arran.

[marriedmalt]

Port Ellen in the morning
Brora with my lunch
Private eye at supper time, I like this one a bunch.
I like expensive whisky,
and high class ambiance,
In my hip flask I always have some Ardbeg Provenance.
To pay for all these whiskies,
No palace I reside,
my house is made of cardboard, and says Maytag on the side.

[orange_barnet]

Autumn days have now become short
The air holds a seasonal chill
Winter’s nigh, the weather is fraught
Snow and ice are both on the bill
The clock long, dark evenings has brought
Into which no sunshine will spill
So my cosy chair must be sought
In my warm snug, quiet and still
By a lamp once long ago bought
In a market busy and shrill
Flickering shadows my eyes will court
In a flame that dances at will
Here I'll calm my senses distraught
Of fine malt I’ll sip a sweet gill.

[Maccy]

I'm absolutely loving this thread,
Just before I head to bed!

[marriedmalt]

I'm not much for religion, to church I rarely go,
on Sunday's it's football I watch, and then the lawn I mow.
I like to wager money, on cards and games of chance,
if grace is said at supper time, it makes no differance.
As Christmas time approaches, the liquor I draw near it,
a 30 year old Bowmore, is what I call the wholly spirit.
But regardless of my lack of faith, on December 24th,
I head out to the chapel, with the family of course.
I sit through what I make to be, a never ending sermon,
While dreaming of a highland malt, or straight Kentucky bourbon.
On Christmas day I head downstairs, with the children and my lady,
a mug held tightly in my hand, full of coffee with some baileys.
The girls are all excited, their faces lit with grins,
but still this day I think is based on false shenanigans.
My wife hands me a gift wrapped tin, it's tall and round and thin,
I start to get excited at what may be found within.
For the first time since my childhood, I fold my hands in prayer,
And ask the lord that single malt be what's wrapped up in there.
The excitement's now to much to take, it's time to have a looksy,
"Praise the Lord!" I shout out loud, baby Jesus gave me whisky!

(For the record, I love Christmas, and don't believe it's all "shenanigans", that word just seemed to work for this particular poem)

Merry Christmas everyone!

[The Third Dram]

THE HOLIDAY COLD

It’s Christmas again and I’m sick as a dog.
My sinuses flow like an Islay peat bog.
My nose is as red as a Sherry casked whisky,
And my general demeanour is far from frisky.

I breathe in the vapours of my treasured malts,
But the scents disappear at my olfactory vaults.
Likewise, the flavours to mulch do they turn,
Leaving little behind but a medicinal burn.

Oh, I long for the day when my senses will rebound,
And I’ll be able to smell like a well trained bloodhound.
For then, once again, will I relish the pleasure
Of the full enjoyment of a dram downed in leisure.

(...on the mend)

[orange_barnet]

No sight of a chipolata
In my main or in my starter
If I don’t have any turkey
Would I be considered quirky
Should sprouts from my plate be missing
I’d surely be seen as dissing
That great established tradition
Of the annual yuletide mission
To serve up a Christmas dinner
Which would no doubt be a winner
But I would rather for me pour
A whisky dram with notes galore
Of spice and fruits and nutty note
Whose richness would my palate coat
And in that moment of finish
I’d serve the purpose of the wish
To raise a glass to whisky friends
And the pleasure that whisky lends.

[marriedmalt]

An ode to packaging,

Highland Park have used oak ships to present their latest, Thor
Macallan went with a Lalique vessel, in which a dram to pour
Glenmorangie chose to store their pride in a wood and crystal home
Snow Phoenix comes in a big huge box made of tin and chiseled foam
Opinions vary quite a bit, in the debate these bottles bring
And when folks say "enough's enough!" in regards to packaging.
While some enjoy a fancy box, decanter or silver flask
Others can be just as happy drinking straight from the cask

[two-bit cowboy]

Whisky Drinker

Bo's ever the gentle gentleman.

'cept when 'e ain't had 'is tonight's dram.

Then 'e gets so mean, oh, I mean mean,

'e'd wipe the smile right off'n the moon.

[two-bit cowboy]

no iambic pentameter here

a nCnoc came on the door.

It was Glen Grant.

He asked me to join him

for a trip to Highland Park,

where the Laddie and

Mac Allan would meet us.

I asked,

"Will the Car dhu?"

"No," said he

It will be a Long row

to the Isle of Jura.

We'll pass Crag an' more

en route to

Spring bank.

So Arran for me horse,

and when I heard Dal whinnie,

I knew we'd arrived.

But I had to know,

Is the other Glen goyne?

"No."

So I was Curiositas,

Will Octom ore?

"I've no idea."

Well, did Ard beg to go?

"No."

I was sure it was a woman.

Would Hazel burn him again?

[marriedmalt]

no iambic pentameter here

a nCnoc came on the door.

It was Glen Grant.

He asked me to join him

for a trip to Highland Park,

where the Laddie and

Mac Allan would meet us.

I asked,

"Will the Car dhu?"

"No," said he

It will be a Long row

to the Isle of Jura.

We'll pass Crag an' more

en route to

Spring bank.

So Arran for me horse,

and when I heard Dal whinnie,

I knew we'd arrived.

But I had to know,

Is the other Glen goyne?

"No."

So I was Curiositas,

Will Octom ore?

"I've no idea."

Well, did Ard beg to go?

"No."

I was sure it was a woman.

Would Hazel burn him again?

I love stuff like this, I had something along the same line in the works, but yours is MUCH better. Well done!

MM

[two-bit cowboy]

Well, thanks. I'll attribute it to some good "our" whisky -- Aberlour and Edradour.

Let's have a look at yours when it's ready. Great thread. Thanks for starting it.

[marriedmalt]

My pleasure, glad you enjoy it.

[The Third Dram]

Whisky's such a mystery.
There's much more to it than look and see.
The scent and taste and afterburn
Mean one has so much still to learn.
Malt and peat may dance together.
The smokiness might last forever.
Perhaps intense fruit shows instead.
Or are those pears just in my head?
For what it's worth, I love the drink
And prefer to sip rather than think.
After all, that's what's intended.
And so my thoughts are now suspended,
That I may return to some dramming
And put a stop to all this hamming.

[Pete Smoke]

Ah but Vogon poetry is only the third worst poetry in the Universe, I believe that Grunthos the Flatulent can claim second place with his "Ode to a small dram of Bruichladdich Black Art that I found one Midsummer Morning after thinking that the bottle was empty"

Brilliant.