Wednesday, 21 April 2010

Coughlin's Law

I felt a little like Tom Cruise at work this weekend. It's been decided by some higher power that we are to serve cocktails, so a happy hour was spent being taught 14 different (but irritatingly similar) concoctions. We've been instructed to memorise each cocktail so we don't have to look them up when a customer orders one. I wondered whether devising a Tom Cruise style poem to remember the ingredients and names of the drinks would be a good way of ingraining them in my mind. You know the poem...

Last Barman Poet

I am the last barman poet.
I see America drinking the fabulous cocktails I make.
Americans getting stinky on something I stir or shake.
The sex on the beach, the schnapps made from peach,
The Velvet Hammer,
the Al-La-Bam-A Slam-a!

I make things with juice and froth: 

the Pink Squirrel, the 3-Toed Sloth. 
I make drinks so sweet and snazzy:
The Iced Tea, The Kamikaze, The Orgasm, The Death Spasm,
The Singapore Sling, The Dingaling.

America you've just been devoted to every flavor I got.
But if you want to got loaded,
why don't you just order a shot? 

Bar is open.

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