For Your Eyes Only

A Scot deprived of usquebaugh

Is very disinclined to laugh.

He’s short of bounce; he lacks panache.

His face is glum, his heart an ache.

He will not dance a gladsome reel

Or gaily strum a ukelele.

He won’t drink Babycham, nor take

A glass of Malibu or sake.

Whatever other drink you pour,

He’ll look extremely dour and sour.

Yet, I have noted, in his doles

He shuns excessive hyperboles

But quite exclusively emotes

In gruffly-accented litotes,

And even when the precious fluid

Comes at last, just says, “That’s guid.”

George Simmers

(from An Essay on Rhyme and other verses)