By Catt Kingsgrave
Thy lime is first; one quarter to each flask
Which, ice be-rimed, are priméd to their task.
Thy vodka from the frozen state decant:
Two ounces, pure, for each participant.
Of Triple-Sec one ounce, then half again
And of Cranberry juice the same refrain
For every every glass your potion's meant to fill
And if thou brew'st it fair, the rosy swill
Shall senses all bewitch; five ounces each,
Into the limed, be-rimed martini's breech.
One citrus zest, wrung hard across each draught,
And rose o'ertakes the mind, howe'er so fraught.
But ask me not whence all this rhyme commences
For I've had two, and
so you're lucky I can manage the scansion at all in
these bloody sentenceces! thus make no pretences.