Mahler’s faddah markets vodka
in the Czech burg of Jihlava.
Damp and tasty when it’s draining
to the gullet…slug big gulps: brain and gut paining.

Spilling from still…proof streams higly;
guzzle much: upchuck, heave drily.
In order to make proof thinner,
it’s diluted to make you less of a sinner.

As I’ve stated, fare is tasty—
taste apace, face: gray and pasty.
At distill’ry, liquid’s thinning
will enable you to more explore the swigging.

It’s rumored, some Mahler arias
were tuned up when he was hairier
than the hound that had imparted
much relief after morning hangovers started.

“Stay the ‘prost!” coached Mahler’s faddah,
“brain may roast post-toasts with vodka.
Believe me: force down great gouts, beware:
might make you forge score chords impaired.

“Abate ‘prost.’ Just sip and don’t swill.
Please enjoy, but err sparingly, I enjoin.
That’s all I have to say.
Take it easy, OK?!”

“But, dear faddah…love your Vodka,
though perhaps I oughta stop, ja?
I’m working on a big symph’ny.
Till finished, I think I’d best be distilled-drinks-free.”

As a quitter, he was failing;
then his liver started ailing.
Moral: When you’re whistle-wetting,
tot lotsa shots o’ vodka—you’ll be regretting.