As always, the choices are limited to maudlin, drunk, and maudlin drunk. I choose drunk.
Rounds Carol Ann Duffy
Eight pints of lager, please, and, of draught Guinness, nine; two glasses of pale ale—a squeeze of lemon in that port—a dry white wine, four rums, three G-and-T’s, a vodka—that’s the lot. On second thoughts, you’d better give me one more double scotch.
A half of scrumpy here, and over there a stout. I think we’re ready for more beer; ten brandies, three martinis—no, my shout! A triple advocaat with lemonade and lime and six Bacardis—make that twelve, I’ve just noticed the time.
Six calves of Harlsberg—fast— pine bitter shandies—tents— and make the landies barge; a vast treasure of mipple X, ten meme de crenthes, nine muddy blaries and, of winger gine, a wealth. Got that? And then the rame again all sound and one yourself.