OGDEN NASH

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant,
A yellow, a mellow Martini,
I wish I had one at present.

There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth, it is not the vermouth,
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

There is something about an old-fashioned
That kindles a cardiac glow,
It is soothing and soft and impassioned
As a lyric by Swinburne or Poe.

There is something about an old-fashioned
When dusk has enveloped the sky,
And it may the ice, or the pineapple slice,
But I strongly suspect it’s the rye.

There is something about a mint julep.
It is nectar imbibed in a dream,
As fresh as the bud of the tulip,
As cool as the bed of the stream.

There is something about a mint julep,
A fragrance beloved by the lucky.
And perhaps it’s the tint of the frost and the mint,
But I think it was born in Kentucky.

There is something they put in a highball
That awakens the torpidest brain,
That kindles a spark in the eyeball,
Gliding singing through vein after vein.

There is something they put in a highball
Which you’ll notice one day, if you watch,
And it may be the soda, but judged by the odor,
I rather believe it’s the Scotch.

Then here’s to the heartening wassail,
Wherever good fellows are found,
Be its master instead of its vassal,
And order the glasses around.

For there’s something they put in the wassail
That prevents it from tasting like wicker,
Since it’s not tapioca, or mustard, or mocha,
I’m forced to conclude it’s the liquor.

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "let us flee!"
"Let us fly!" said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

Celery, raw, develops the jaw,
but celery, stewed, is more quietly chewed.

The ant has made herself illustrious
by constant industry industrious.
So what? Would you be calm and placid,
if you were full of formic acid?

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks,
which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
in such a fix to be so fertile.

Scholars call the masculine swan a cob,
I call him a narcissistic snob.
He looks in the mirror over and over,
and claims to have never heard of Pavlova.

The wasp and all his numerous family,
I look upon as a major calamity.
He throws open his nest with prodigality,
but I distrust his waspitality.

The rhino is a homely beast,
for human eyes he's not a feast.
Farewell, farewell, you old rhinoceros,
I'll stare at something less prepoceros.

Behold the duck.
It does not cluck.
A cluck it lacks.
It quacks.
It is specially fond
Of a puddle or pond.
When it dines or sups,
It bottoms ups.

A crusader's wife slipped from the garrison,
and had an affair with a Saracen,
She was not over-sexed, or jealous or vexed,
she just wanted to make a comparison.

and finally: a poem for all the husbands:

To keep your marriage brimming
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it,
Whenever you’re right, shut up.