Doggy-Dog World

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.

           "The Curse of the Stinger"

Have you ever been stung by a stinger?

It's what drinkers regard as a zinger--

      It's a bonk on the head

      With a sockful of lead

Or a tit that's been caught in a wringer.

Your body becomes rather numb,   

And a needle stuck into your bum                                                       

         Won't have any effect

         And you'll want to reject

All the stuff in your gut, and then some.

It's a mixture of minty old brandy,

Gustatorially good, just like candy.
         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.