I will not touch Perrier, unless used as a chase.
That grappa made in Rome uses grapes as its base.
I can tear right through a Rhône and pour lots of them Manhattans.
I moan, feel shitty; I finished my last case.

Bereft of Harp, my hand jitters so.
Nothing to swill, I bawl. . .DTs.
Beeline for table in a bar. I demand a sidecar;
Pour ice in to chill this dog's hair--put it there!

My lunch--grape fare. Hand me that Pinot!
Blue Curaçao and gin, too, please.
When I come home too stewed, mad mistress blows
Her golden top; repines* to me.

*complains