by Al Drinkle
‘Neath an azure sky this Sunday past, mine wife-lady and I didst traveleth to yond sylvan parketh whose namesake recalls a prince forgotten. Seeking an aft’rnoon of living theatre, we satteth ourselves on inviting parcels of grasses lush and green to enjoyeth a p’rf’rmance of The Two Gentlemen of Verona.
It wast indeed a welcometh remindeth’r that the Bard’s immortality beest matched by nothing if not his jocular wit. And due to summer’s great travelling lamp, mine own thirst for wit didst find its equal in my thirst for hydrating Hock. Nay, I speaketh not of thine counteth’rfeit Rhein wine entrapped in vessels resembling gib-cats! Rath’r, from a portable flagon didst we poureth the dry and quenching elixir crafted by that quite quaint siren, Eva Fricke.
Hark! How the wine didst glimmer like unsheathed swords and spake eloquently of places idyll and aft’rnoons frivol. Betwixt mine wife-lady and I, we englutted the flagon’s f’rtunes in none too many draughts - not unlike Falstaff of lore. So next timeth thee wend thy way to parkeths serene, for leisure or love, wend not without refreshing liquids like that from the banks of the palmy Rhine.
