I could pour my love in a coffee cup and the shivering and skeptical would beg me to drink it on a cold winter morning. And could they drink from my coffee cup? No, because it’s not like there is coffee in there, or even hot chocolate. My love is the only thing filling that cup, and everyone knows (well, everyone but Agatha knows) that you can’t drink my love, you can only eat it. That’s because my love is frozen like 32 degrees spun around 180 degrees, translated to Inuit, shipped to Siberia, tutored in a gulag, and sent back to the US in the form of a Martini on the rocks by a bartender named Martin Rock.
