When we were younger and somewhat dumber, we loved to have an occasional stinger after a fancy dinner out. It was a reward, a dessert. And qute often, one just wasn't enough, so we'd reward ourselves with another one. This is a very dangerous drink, because the drinker just doesn't realize how potent this rascal is . . . until the next morning. A number of years ago, I decided to write this poem in a series of four limericks to epitomize this experience.
So you drink one or two.
And then what do you do?
You drink anything else that is handy.
In the morning the size of your tongue
Just barely leaves room for the dung
Some hynea has shat
In your mouth, and with that,
You've been cursed by the stinger that stung.