There's a bar in the Bronx I've not been to for yonks
where a group of young drinkers indulged in a spree
which lasted from Monday till midnight on Sunday –
they were F. Scott Fitzgerald and Zelda. And me.
We got Brahms. We got Liszt. We got so very pissed
that I muddled up Gatsby with someone from Dickens.
Scott's brain was too glazed to be angry or phased.
But the shame of my error still lingers and sickens.
We drank whisky in rivers. We knackered our livers
each time that we emptied our bucket-sized glasses.
When the bar slung us out we just stumbled about
till Zelda dragged both of us home on our arses.
And then just to end a week's memorable bender
enjoyed with my new drinking buddy, Scott Fitz,
I begged and compelled a near-comatose Zelda
to make us Martinis as big as the Ritz.