Follicle to Fundament

I’m not James Bond or

Jimmy Beard,

But I know what to drink with weird;

There was a list which I was sent,

From follicle to fundament:

White or red?

Your meal’s still dead;

Just get fed,

And go to bed.

Chardonay with fish filet?

Chops with Vosne Romanee?

Whether to drink old or young?

(Rampling or Christensen?)

When I drink there is no doubt,

I place my order and make it stout:

Guinness and a Jameson—

What was it that you called me, then?

Cape buffalo, lion, antelope,

I’d even order for the Pope;

ChristBlood singing in a chalice,

Sweet red wine drunk without malice.

In to Bourbon’s slurried well,

Amber pours and secrets tell

Of intermittent deprivations,

And mean slags pouring thin potations.

I know a spot to sup with chums,

With demis, mags and jeroboams;

To start, How about an aperitif?

Kir? Why not? But, make it brief;

And should you want a postprandial,

The green stuff’s good after a while:

Absinthe makes the tart grow fond;

La Fee Verte waves her magic wand;

And if there is no place to go,

We’ll stay inside with Veuve Clicquot;

Coffee, grappa, chocolate cake—

The last request that waiter’s take:

It’s time to drink our rations up:

To lullabies which fill our cup.

WEBB DIAMOND'S INTERIOR THOUGHTS ON LUX AND DEATH: "you ain't no punk, you punK..." + SIX VIDEES

you ain't no punk, you punk. you wannah talk about the real junk?

Ann cannot comprehend my celebratory mourning as I chicken cluck around the house wearing nothing but black rubber shorts (I’m as fat as Lux was thin but it is the thought that counts).

I took the news hard much harder than a man just months away from the big 50 should.

My judo opiate infused singing rants grating her nerves like Surf-in M Wilson’s uncapped nails on an abandoned blackboard. Her threats have not stopped my 24 hour serenade of but three tunes sung on heavy rotation, “The Rebel Johnny Yuma,”