Word of the Day: Dipsomania

As dry as the Arabian desert, not a drop to be found. His nose was quite fond of a fine bouquet, but had thirsted for far too long. Days had passed with no respite, not a single note or even a dirge – an ode to the dipsomaniac. Trudging through the barren wastes, he began to hum his A, B, C’s… A is for Absinth, B-eautiful Bourbon, C cherished Catawba, and D Dear Drambouie… a mournful hope, an attempt to turn water into wine… M shines the Moon, N never dry! Toes dragging through grains of sand, alas not wheat! …V various vodkas, W wet my Whistle… Knees shaking, sweat pouring, eyes burning. “More!” He quakes… Z I’ll even settle for a Zima! A revolving door of patrons moseying in and stumbling out beckons. Finally, a light at the end of his long, dark tunnel!

“Hello, Mr. Otis. Back for another? Your tab from this morning is still open.”

Thoughts? Musings? Pertinent ramblings of your own? Please share!

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