Old Pulteney 12 Year

Last night, I fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. An advert for the new "Bill & Ted Face the Music" film was broadcasting, and my last conscious thought was, 'I'm jealous.' Then I slipped into placid dreams, plied on by a healthy dose of Old Pulteney 12. In my dreams, a poem was being read by a Scotsman - his accent turning the lines into sing-song lyrics in a Gaelic-inflected cadence, flowing like a babbling brook in a glen. (Full disclosure: this is the height of pretentious conceit for me to actually torment my fellow reviewers and readers with rubbish poetry. I haven't written so, since at least high school. And that must tell where my ego is.... wait, that's the bell!) I live in a modern world, in the USA. A populous and progressive state, both dense and diverse, a metropolitan place. One in a mass, I live on the bedrock of the past. That is what I went through, that is how I came to be. And that may yet tell where I'll lay - in peace. Old Pulteney in spirit calls to me, it's new skin in old ceremony. I outwardly hope this does not disappoint... but I could be in the minority here, despite being adroit. On the palate, burst of citrus sweet. Apples and honey make for added treats. Followed by vanilla, shortbread, sultanas Successive tipples I follow like Ché in Havana. The texture is smooth very much like a vermouth. And of orange peel, I've never dealed to woo or entreat. I smacked my mouth to get it done, notwithstanding the look at my feet. Mother it be, from it she'll never be free. I straight adore you like a play or grand parody. Love like scotch can be such a mystery, from that which I'll drink forth like a black tea. Unfortunately, for me (and maybe you dear reader after suffering through that) I did not wake up as Bill, or Ted - but there was plenty of Old Pulteney instead.