Martini---oh here I go again. You city folk with your fancy ideas of raisin' a farm gets my gettin' goin'. Seems to me that any self respectin' farmer only drinks on Saturday night down at the Harvest Moon Saloon. Back in my day, you'd siddle up to the regular bar stool with an almost imperceptible nod to the 'keep behind the bar. He'd snap to, and before your buns had warmed the cushion one iota, a frosty Pabst would come slidin' down the bar. Sure, every now and again we'd get some slicker or college boy in that was in country for the colors or visitin' or such and they'd order one of them fancy drinks. If they were close, I'd give their toe a little splatterin' of my tobacco and they'd move on down the rail. Martini's---makes me think that there ain't nothing in this world that makes sense anymore.
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