One whisky is all right; two is too much; three is too few.
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Habits have no eye for merits
I cannot afford to buy whisky.
I am settled with country liqueur.
Used to it, I lost taste for whisky.
The whisky offered was put aside.
I cannot risk taking women to bed.
I am settled with masturbation.
Used to it, I lost taste for sex.
I have my mate masturbate for me.
15.06.2010
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Whisky the truth seeker
Took a shot of whisky
No a lot to kill me
Sensors,
Were heightened
But not frighten
Visions were slow
But to show
The reflections of a broken man
Past is shown to the man
All thanks the whisky,
The seeker of truth for the broken man.
Poison Whisky
(ed king - ronnie vanzant)
Daddy was a cajun, raised on southern land
And so my kinfolks tell me, was a street-fightin man.
Well, they rushed him down to see the doctor
Hey doctor, wont you check his head?
The only thing that was wrong with him
Was johnny walkers red
He drank ole poison whisky
til it killed him dead.
It happened back in the bayou many years ago
Satan came to take him and he did it real slow
Well, they rushed him back to see the doctor
The doctor just shook his head,
Twenty years of rotgut whisky
Done killed the poor man dead.
He drank ole poison whisky
til it killed him dead.
Take a tip from me, people... brothers cant you see
Aint no future in ole poison whisky.
Theyre gonna rush you down to see the doctor,
The doctors gonna shake his head.
The only thing hes gonna tell ya
Stop drinkin johnny walkers red
Dont drink poison whisky, dont you drink it boy.
song performed by by Lynyrd Skynyrd
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wedding In Paris
Wedding in Paris
Coming out of the church after the wedding there were
smiles and cameras clicked, from the steps I could look
down into a park, a tramp was going through a bin
looking for something to eat, he found and ate what looked
like a half eaten pizza. With all the clatter going on
I slipped away, had a whisky in a bar across the road,
saw the tramp coming out of the park, my idea was to give
him some money for food, but I was self-conscious and
hated the thought of looking patronizing so I had another
whisky instead.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Some Choose a Whisky Death.
Some choose a whisky death.
A taxpaying
coward’s death.
Slower
but with the same end
result
as tightening noose
or piercing bullet
or life
in general.
Some choose a whisky death.
While Death’s Icy Hand
raises frosty jug of
beer
they
burn bridges
and candles
in both ends
in blind challenge,
accepting,
knowing
THEY
would drink
piss
or poison
or bottled
spring
water
if it could fill up
the hollow
space
inside them.
poem by Carsten Thomsen
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Catastrophe? for JT ellison
He spoke in deep heart rending tones
which stirred the marrow of your bones.
Of the great sorrow that he bore,
he would know happiness no more.
Whilst busy with some lawful task
he’d slipped and broken his hip flask.
His whisky soaked into the ground.
There was no solace to be found
Unless of course some kindly soul
would volunteer to pay the toll
to have his whisky flask renewed.
Earn his undying gratitude
But we who’d heard his tale before
paid no attention any more.
6-Jul-08
http: // blog.myspace.com./poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Alabama Song
Show me the way to the next whisky bar
Oh, don't ask why, oh, don't ask why
Show me the way to the next whisky bar
Oh, don't ask why, oh, don't ask why
For if we don't find the next whisky bar
I tell you we must die
I tell you we must die
I tell you
I tell you
I tell you we must die
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say say good-bye
We've lost our good old mamma
And must have whisky
Oh, you know why.
Show me the way to the next pretty girl
Oh, don't ask why, oh, don't ask why
Show me the way to the next pretty girl
Oh don't ask why, oh, don't ask why
For if we don't find the next pretty girl
I tell you we must die
I tell you we must die
I tell you
I tell you
I tell you we must die
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say good-bye
We've lost our good old mamma
And must have a girl
Oh, you know why.
Show me the way to the next little dollar
Oh, don't ask why, oh, don't ask why
Show me the way to the next little dollar
Oh, don't ask why, oh, don't ask why
For if we don't find the next little dollar
I tell you we must die
I tell you we must die
I tell you
I tell you
I tell you we must die
Oh, moon of Alabama
We now must say good-bye
We've lost our good old mamma
And must have dollars
Oh, you know why.
poem by Bertolt Brecht
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September travel
September Travel
I’ve packed my suitcase ready to go to Norway in
September, extra jumpers, wooly socks and two
bottles of whisky; well, I’m only staying there for
four days, but there might be a war breaking out.
Booze is very expensive in Norway so I can’t go
into bars, but sit in a tiny hotel room drink good
whisky from a glass in the bathroom, the one used
to brush ones teeth in the morning.
I will be walking around in streets where no one
knows me, there will be rain and I have no umbrella,
and I will end up in one of those expensive bars,
just standing there drinking and talking to no one.
I have unpacked my suitcase, and opened one of
the bottles and sit in my favourite chair drinking
a drop, I will not be going back to Norway this year,
the dog is old and can’t be left alone in a kennel,
poem by Jan Oskar Hansen
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Old Friends
Old friends
My friends and I are elderly men with protruding bellies, we drink whisky
in the evening and talk about the old days; and of friends that went before
us. We feel slightly envious of them, as we have yet a death to come.
The war in Afghanistan has lasted ten years and might last ten more years
this makes us smile for we know wars are endless, like a bad back we have
to learn to live with. Little has changed in our life time, avarice and lust for
power rule ok. In the bar we talk about football, a game of utter futility.
When we leave and see a beautiful girl walking past we don’t bother to turn
around for a second glance, what’s the point. When a friend dies, usually of
cancer or heart attack, we go to his funeral, drink whisky, shudder and talk
about him, sport and the crazy world we live in.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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I like my whisky old and my women young.
quote by Errol Flynn
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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summer stargazing
they do the cha cha cha
in my whisky glass
haiku by Chenou Liu
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her face
in my whisky
the moon floats
haiku by Chenou Liu
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The Secret Whisky Cure
’Tis no tale of heroism, ’tis no tale of storm and strife,
But of ordinary boozing, and of dull domestic life—
Of the everlasting friction that most husbands must endure—
Tale of nagging and of drinking—and a secret whisky cure.
Name of Jones—perhaps you know him—small house-agent here in town—
(Friend of Smith, you know him also—likewise Robinson and Brown),
Just a hopeless little husband, whose deep sorrows were obscure,
And a bitter nagging Missis—and death seemed the only cure.
’Twas a common sordid marriage, and there’s little new to tell—
Save the pub to him was Heaven and his own home was a hell:
With the office in between them—purgatory to be sure—
And, as far as Jones could make out—well, there wasn’t any cure.
’Twas drink and nag—or nag and drink—whichever you prefer—
Till at last she couldn’t stand him any more than he could her.
Friends and relatives assisted, telling her (with motives pure)
That a legal separation was the only earthly cure.
So she went and saw a lawyer, who, in accents soft and low,
Asked her firstly if her husband had a bank account or no;
But he hadn’t and she hadn’t, they in fact were very poor,
So he bowed her out suggesting she should try some liquor cure.
She saw a drink cure advertised in the Sydney Bulletin—
Cure for brandy, cure for whisky, cure for rum and beer and gin,
And it could be given secret, it was tasteless, swift and sure—
So she purchased half a gallon of that Secret Whisky Cure.
And she put some in his coffee, smiling sweetly all the while,
And he started for the office rather puzzled by the smile—
Smile or frown he’d have a whisky, and you’ll say he was a boor—
But perhaps his wife had given him an overdose of Cure.
And he met a friend he hadn’t seen for seven years or more—
It was just upon the threshold of a private bar-room door—
And they coalised and entered straight away, you may be sure—
But of course they hadn’t reckoned with a Secret Whisky Cure.
Jones, he drank, turned pale, and, gasping, hurried out the back way quick,
Where, to his old chum’s amazement, he was violently sick;
Then they interviewed the landlord, but he swore the drink was pure—
It was only the beginning of the Secret Whisky Cure.
For Jones couldn’t stand the smell of even special whisky blends,
And shunned bar-rooms to the sorrow of his trusty drinking friends:
And they wondered, too, what evil genius had chanced to lure
Him from paths of booze and friendship—never dreaming of a Cure.
He had noticed, too, with terror that a something turned his feet,
When a pub was near, and swung him to the other side the street,
Till he thought the devils had him, and his person they’d immure
In a lunatic asylum where there wasn’t any Cure.
He consulted several doctors who were puzzled by the case—
As they mostly are, but never tell the patient to his face—
Some advised him ‘Try the Mountains for this malady obscure:’
But there wasn’t one could diagnose a Secret Whisky Cure.
And his wife, when he was sober?—Well, she nagged him all the more!
And he couldn’t drown his sorrow in the pewter as of yore:
So he shot himself at Manly and was sat upon by Woore,
And found rest amongst the spirits from the Secret Whisky Cure.
And the moral?—well, ’tis funny—or ’tis woman’s way with men—
She’s remarried to a publican who whacks her now and then,
And they get on fairly happy, he’s a brute and he’s a boor,
But she’s never tried her second with a Secret Whisky Cure.
poem by Henry Lawson
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crowded
in my whisky glass
autumn stars
haiku by Chenou Liu
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You know these love letters mix with whisky, just don't light a match when you kiss me.
quote by Jon Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A glass of whisky in Scotland in the thirties cost less than a cup of tea.
quote by Catherine Helen Spence
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A drunkard is like a whisky bottle only neck and belly but no head.
Born For Adventure
Written by dennis deyoung
Lead vocals by dennis deyoung
I am the thief of the highway
Rich man you better take hold
cause last night while you lie sleeping
I came to steal all your gold
All the kings horses
All the kings men
Surrounded the chapel
To trap me within
A lady in waiting
Lips red with rouge
She offered me pleasures
I could not refuse
No, no, no
For I was born
Born for adventure
Women whisky and sin
No Ill never surrender
Live by the sword till the end
All the kings horses
All the kings men
Were drinking and dancing
At fezewigs inn
They spoke of my capture
And of my escape
They called it misfortune
But I called it fate
No, no, no
For I was born
Born for adventure
Women whisky and sin
No Ill never surrender
Live by the sword till the end
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whisky.
quote by William Faulkner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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About two months into the Whisky, I borrowed some money and rented a remote recording truck.
quote by Johnny Rivers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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