The Kick

First I tried a Dry Martini;
But found not one teeny-weeny
   Semblance of a kick in any kind of this.
Then I sampled a Manhattan;
But 'twas much the same with that 'un;
   And as impotent I found an Angel's Kiss.
 
So I drank the menu thro';
Side-car, Bronx and Gin-and-Two.
   Such innocuous concoctions left me sad.
And I yearned with eager yearning
For a cocktail, sudden, burning,
   That might give a man a jolt and make him glad.
 
Then a fellow, somewhat seedy,
Down at heel and seeming needy,
   said, "If it's a kick you're seeking, come with me."
So we went into a garden
That to me seemed partly Arden,
   Partly, Eden; and we sat beneath a tree.
 
Here my friend produced a bottle,
Drew the stopper from its throttle,
   And, pouring out a nip, said, "Drink this, quick!"
No least hesitation followed;
I threw back my head and swallowed.
   Oh, boy!  Oh, res and furies!  What a kick!
 
Green lightnings and blue blazes!
Fierce stars in fiery hazes!
   Pink elephants that flapped about the sky! ...
When I woke, some five hours later,
Feeling queer at the equator,
   "Great Scott!  How do you make that stuff?" said I.
 
"First of all," he proudly stated,
"Take a pint of methylated,
   Stir in varnish, an' some 'air oil, just a drop.
Then, if pep should still be lackin',
Add turps, an' a tin of blackin'.
   Me own invention, called the Fitzcray Flop."