The Counterfeit Inspector Poem by John F. McCullagh

The Counterfeit Inspector



Scottish single malts are loved by fans here and abroad.
Some folks will pay a fortune for rare bottles they can hoard.
Whenever a commodity becomes as rare as gold,
there always will be criminals with profit as their goal.
They'll find an empty bottle and forge tax stamps for it too
and fill it up with Canadian Club, a far far lesser brew!
Then, when the fraud's discovered, Scotland Yard is called
to find the perpetrators and to hang them by the balls.
A detective of a certain sort can discern what bottles hold.
by looking at, in certain light, the subtle shades of gold.
He'll need to know which revenue stamps are fraudulent or true.
If the contents are suspicious he must taste them, wouldn't you?
' I'm thinking this is Jameson's, Not Macallan's malt so pure.
but I'll take another glass or two to be absolutely sure.'

Thursday, September 18, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: drinking
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