Beer Poems

Apart from their esthetic and cultural contribution, Beer Poems are meant to emphasize the importancy of this Drink of the Gods. So let us start to publish.

Why We Love Beer
Beer is a drink
That won’t help you think.
Nor will it open your eyes
To what is true and wise.
Beer is a brew
That helps you get through.
Drink, and you’ll rise
Above UMass to the skies.
Forget the true and the wise.
Isn’t this your deepest desire:
To rise above the muck and mire?
If so, join the guys.
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Friday Lament
It’s Friday. Throat dry.
Chalky hands. Why do I
Work so hard? Email overflowing.
Where am I going?
The world is rushing past
At the speed of light.
Did last week last
An hour? It’s nearly night.
Ah. Escape is here.
Rafters. Friends. Beer.

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No Beer, No Work
The shades of night was fallin' slow
As through New York a guy did go
And nail on ev'ry barroom door
A card that this here motter bore:
"No beer, no work."
His brow was sad, his mouth was dry;
It was the first day of July,
And where, all parched and scorched it hung,
These words was stenciled on his tongue:
"No beer, no work."
"Oh, stay," the maiden said, "and sup
This malted milk from this here cup."
A shudder passed through that there guy,
But with a moan he made reply:
"No beer, no work."
At break of day, as through the town
The milkman put milk bottles down,
Onto one stoop a sort of snore
Was heard, and then was heard no more—
"No beer, no work."
The poor old guy plumb dead was found
And planted in the buryin' ground,
Still graspin' in his hand of ice
Them placards with this sad device:
"No beer, no work."
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One Last Beer
Alone I am and the weather is cold.
My girlfriend's not here for me to behold!
A beer I want for my red tounge to taste.
I run to the 'fridge in a heavenly haste!
Is there one last beer I think to myself,
as i eximine the refridgerator shelf.
A glass of sweet jam is all I ever find!
Or have my blue eyes gone completely blind?
In fear I walk to the basement cold.
To search for a beer from times very old!
Now what did I find as I looked through the shelf?
A beer that my father had hid for himself!
My last beer I drink as I write these words.
For summer I wait and the singing of birds.
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