“I never drink wine”

“But Master,
it’s whisky – see, the stag on the label?”
Renfield, taking orders as always,
ferries drinks from bar to table.

There’s a heap of capes on the counter.
On a stool, there’s Jack Palance – who,
for a creature that lives on blood (and beer),
is looking quite substantial.

George Hamilton is swaying
and giggling at Bela Lugosi
who’s trying to do his party piece
with a pint glass, matchbox and coaster.

But Frank Langella’s disappeared –
ah, those lips, those eyes
were enough to snare the barmaid –
no phony fangs required.

Klaus Kinski’s in a corner
where small cries can be heard.
They may be his – but no-one’s keen
to ask if his drink is dead.

So Renfield orders another round
and longs for eternal life.
Says the barman “Is that with Kahlua?”
and pours him one, over ice.