Ode to Chartreuse
I taste a liqueur finest brewed — From French mountains remote — Not all the world’s Botanicals Can hit those tasting notes!
Inebriate of herbs — am I — And Debauchee of Spleen — Reeling — thro’ endless summer days — From rivers yellow-green —
When the Pope turns the drunken monks Out of the alpine flowers — When Carthusians — renounce their drams — I shall but drink empowered!
Till Rivals find the recipe — And Barkeeps — to cocktails run — You’ll see this little Tippler Tasting the pure green — Sun!
With thanks to Emily.