Moderation is my motto when I'm at the bar.
I only take a glass or two of something like wood tar.
Then I switch to single malt, but never chug 'em down.
After six or seven I have lost my wish to frown.
Then I'm in that happy zone where moderation cries
for a snappy zinfandel and order of french fries.
The bartender, inspired by my dainty ways (or breath)
now offers me beer chasers (while I'm burping half to death).
To celebrate my great restraint I end the night with gin.
(And when I wake up in a dumpster, wonder where I've been . . . )
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