A poem for SN.

Many large drinks have I made friends with,
That are mentioned in ancient myth,
And cause there to be much frith,
Among all the kin and kith.

The Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster
Which was definitely vaster
Than empires and more slow,
And Algolian sun tigers’ teeth
Burned in the depths beneath
Its shimmering surface.

A tamarind margarita
Would bring down a medium sized cheetah
Its savoury flavour
Would make grown men quaver.

A piña colada bigger than my face
It tasted like an angel’s tears,
And would have been no disgrace
At dinner for the King of Algiers.

Then there’s the Hurricane from New Orleans
It’ll pick you up and knock you down
It’ll blow off your socks and rip off your jeans
And make you sing like a dyspeptic clown.

So give me that old Janx spirit,
It makes me mean but it keeps me clean,
It never makes me worrit,
It makes me into a well-oiled machine.