Oops, it's not vodka they make in that town
the finest of plums they grow there with care.
Fermented, distilled to a brandy renowned:
the infamous slivovitz they produce there.

Stolichnaya's not slivovitz; what was I thinking,
to make jest in a previous ill-thought out verse?
Perhaps I can blame on holiday drinking,
the bane of all poets (and Piney Flat's curse).

Code is poetry. Valid XHTML and CSS.

All content copyright their respective authors | Bug squashing by Skuld-sama | Graciously hosted by _Quinn ­ | cwdb codebase by Alan J Castonguay

Megatokyo Writer's Archive