An Ode to Laphroaig Single Malt Scotch Whisky
Let’s exalt Laphroaig! Bottled poetry, the malt of salt.
Elvis McGonagall won the Spokefest UK Slam poetry match
and wrote a poem for Laphroaig’s campaign to plaster
their wall with big opinions. Is this the medicine
Laphroaig needs? Options projected, temporal as smoke?
Who will answer McGonagall’s call? We would.
So, why the campaign? It’s fun, of course! But we would
lose any poetry contest. Watching McGonagall rubs salt
into the wounds. We can’t write like him. Our words are smoke
that fades in the morning. We’re no match.
But we try. Unstop the cork and sip our medicine.
We roll our eyes. We think. We gaze at the ceiling, the fractured plaster
McGonagall’s words are bombs that plaster
a village. We run to the sestina, but would
need to cheat the form. Let’s hope that laughter is the best medicine
because we offer clichéd phrases without rhyme, the salt
of pleasure. No rhythms, our words burn like a match
struck in the wind. Our first day in The Smoke:
Nose: What’s hidden behind the curtain of smoke?
We press our eyes between the cracked plaster
splinters. We strain to see. The dynastic match
for Rob Roy and ice. Is there more than charred wood
bound by seaweed ropes covered in salt?
Yes! It’s iodine behind the peat, that heavy purple medicine.
Mouth: Now, they all say it tastes of medicine,
that much is clear. And of course we can feel the smoke.
They all say that too. But have they tasted salt
water taffy? A peculiar sweet that’s pulled like plaster
across a dead man’s face. Saccharine maple wood,
Laphroaig’s scorched syrup, impossible to match.
Throat: Dry and lingering like a dead match
fallen between paving stones. An acrid medicine
that gnaws on us like wolves in a naked wood,
ravaged by wildfire. But we can never escape the smoke.
Don’t look back! It soothers us like a plaster
cast turning us to pillars of salt.
Exalted Laphroaig, king of smoke! But we cannot match
McGonagall. We’ve been cut down and a sticking plaster isn’t the medicine.
No. We would not write poetry again. We’ll sit below the salt.
2/5 – Let someone else buy you a measure and you can cook with it, maybe you can even add it to the food.