V. 2, #167: September 12, 2013

Old Terence knew what he was on about;
I've praised the man before, and will again.
That, in a life beset with pain and doubt,
Booze is the balm available to men.

There's whiskey for your worry, beers for fears,
and gin to hold depression's clouds at bay.
Red wine is fine for mixing with your tears,
and rum can give the dumb something to say.

To those who call intemperance a sin
and shame the drunk with their religious deeds,
I say, God made booze and this world we're in,
and one's the cure the other sorely needs.

See, Jesus thought wine ought to flow till dawn,
and water? Only fit to walk upon.

V. 2, #153: August 29, 2013

My friends got old, have given up their drinking,
and do not care to tie one on with me.
They're tired of coming home on Fridays stinking,
then sleeping off their hangovers till three;

Nobody wants to dance, smoke cigarillos,
and get in fights with every local tough;
they'd rather turn in early, hug their pillows,
and tell their wilder friends they've had enough.

Gone are the days when we were young and winsome,
with livers fresh as daisies on the loam;
now if I want to paint the old town crimson,
I guess I'll have to do it on my own.

The streams of youth must trickle to their ends;
so raise this lonely glass: to absent friends.

V. 2, #122: July 28, 2013 ("Eureka")

It may not be the answer, but at least
it's not another question. My head's full
of riddles and enigmas, all this bull-
shit I can't figure. Water, malt, and yeast

have never puzzled me with subtle snares
nor kept me up at night with no recourse
save to themselves. And if I felt remorse
next day, it did not catch me unawares.

There's things in life I'll never understand,
injustices I'll never see set right,
desire no earthly knowledge satisfies.
But in this glass, a shaft of liquid light
that smites my brain and stills my shaking hand,
asks me no questions, and tells me no lies.

V. 2, #113: July 19, 2013

Let's have a beer for you, and one for me,
and one for our companion to your right.
As sure as one and one and one make three,
we're celebrating well into the night!

You're welcome, sir! I'll drink mine to your health,
as many as our lovely barmaid pours.
If we have friends and beer, what need of wealth?
Drink up, I say! Mind you, the next round's yours.

Our days, much like the free nuts on that bar,
are salty, finite, cracked, and gone too fast.
But are we gonna stop? Like hell we are!
No fine, delicious thing is meant to last.

I'll leave you gents to ponder what I said,
as well you should. I gotta hit the head.

V. 2, #94: June 30, 2013

Of course there's nothing wrong with beer; in fact,
I think you'll find the opposite is true.
No threat you make, no law you could enact
could sully my opinion of the brew;

Likewise, I've no bad things to say of wine
to serve as a prescription for your woes,
and though it's not my favorite, it's just fine
for those with finer palates, I suppose.

But when the cocktail hour has rolled around,
the workday actors all have played their roles,
a gin and tonic in my hand, I've found,
sweeps clear the table and inverts the poles.

And some days, when I'm weighted down with care,
I try all three--you know, just to compare.

V. 2, #40: May 7, 2013

There must have been a time in ages past,
when hunters stalked with sling and stone and spear,
a curse that would leave modern man aghast
existed: there was no such thing as beer.

How primitive their lives, without a balm
to salve their apeish brains back at the cave!
No golden brew to make the savage calm,
nor help the fearful brute stand straight and brave!

Was Mankind's progress founded on the dream
of some magic elixir he might drink?
Were boozy bubbles topped with heady cream
the font of Evolution? Makes you think.

A toast then, to the race that tamed the beast
with bigger brains, hops, water, malt and yeast.

 

#445: Ode to the Martini

Martinis are my wonder drug of choice--
experience requires no further proof.
I feel sophisticated and aloof
and something smooths the edges of my voice
beyond that first sour sip. Like Cary Grant
I raise an eyebrow, light a cigarette
and instantly more than my lips are wet.
Each debutante becomes a sycophant
to my suave, worldly ways and derring-do.
There's something in it neither age nor youth
can quite explain--though its effects are sure.
And whether it's the gin or the vermouth,
or something psychological, it's true:
Whatever ails--martinis are the cure.

#430: Drinking Buddies

We came out of the bar about as drunk
as we could get--unburdened, clumsy, broke,
and singing bawdy songs. We stank of smoke
and failure. In the street, a black cat slunk
away, afraid of all our boisterous noise.
He clattered down the alley with the cans
and moaned a hopeless music, like a man's
last cry before despair packs up his voice
in rough pine crates. My hat all bent to hell,
askew atop my wildly spinning brain,
I sang Oh Mary Jane, won't you be mine?
I've had my penecillin--then we fell
into each other's arms and laughed the pain
into our collars. I got home by nine.
_

#417: Not Looking for Answers

What? Set 'em up again? Yeah, might as well.
It's not like anybody's keeping score
or waiting up at home, so what the hell!
What was my last, a whiskey? So--one more;

At least the one--we'll see what happens next,
then judge what course of action suits us best.
If cured, we'll say good night, but if still vexed
by life or love or--well, you know the rest.

It's clear the riddle's answer that we seek
will not be found in bottles, vats, or cans;
we are not fools. We have not come for such.
For now, we're done with mysteries that leak
like icy water through our blistered hands.
So pour--I'll tell you when I've had too much.
_

#391: Down the Pub

Come on and pour the ale out for us, lass!
Give us a jar and fill it to its rim;
The nights are long, the fire is growing dim,
And nothing hates us like an empty glass.

It's Guinness, black and bitter as the years
We've spent alone, our friends and family lost;
A round for all, barmaid, and damn the cost!
This potion's fit to banish all such fears.

Or else it's Bass, as warm and brown as wood
Tossed in the stove to chase away the chill;
Or maybe something stronger by the gill--
A dram of whisky sure would do us good.

Time marches on, it's no use to resist;
So let us face it: brave, unbowed--and pissed.
_

#391: Down the Pub

Come on and pour the ale out for us, lass!
Give us a jar and fill it to its rim;
The nights are long, the fire is growing dim,
And nothing hates us like an empty glass.

It's Guinness, black and bitter as the years
We've spent alone, our friends and family lost;
A round for all, barmaid, and damn the cost!
This potion's fit to banish all such fears.

Or else it's Bass, as warm and brown as wood
Tossed in the stove to chase away the chill;
Or maybe something stronger by the gill--
A dram of whisky sure would do us good.

Time marches on, it's no use to resist;
So let us face it: brave, unbowed--and pissed.
_

#371: Last Call

Another round, bartender, set 'em up!
There's far too many empty glasses here.
You see the money--go on, fill my cup!
It doesn't matter if it's wine or beer,

or whiskey, scotch, fine port, gin with vermouth
or else with tonic--put it in my hand.
The leap is short between old age and youth--
as who among us does not understand?

Some say to drown your troubles thus with booze
is just a coward's act--to them I say
go fuck yourselves! That's nothing I can use.
Either join in, or get out of my way.

Those that remain, please raise your glasses high--
and may you always be more drunk than I.

#350: April 8, 2007

Go on and pour me two glasses of wine;
I'll tell you when I need some more to drink.
'Cause lately it's been hurting me to think--
a few more snorts of this and I'll be fine.

There's brisker pipes than poetry for dance,
Old Terence said before he had to die.
He was my friend--I can't think he would lie;
so quaff quintessence while you've got the chance.

Our life's enjoyment lasts but for a season,
and Death's duration is eternity.
Why not enjoy a cocktail, maybe three?
They call the thing a "liver" for a reason!

I've heard the grave's a private place, and nice;
but just try getting tonic there, or ice.

#328: March 17, 2007

My darling is an angel of the vineyard,
of barley malt and spirits all distilled.
Songs worthy of her praise have never been heard,
and won't until this Cup of Life is filled.

She brings me grapes pressed down to their quintessence,
the nectar of the fragrant, bitter hop;
all liquors taste the sweeter in her presence--
without her, champagne corks refuse to pop.

No cocktail that will ever be invented
can make me drunk as I am on her voice;
and no extract that's ever been fermented
could dethrone my intoxicant of choice.

Give me your lips, my love! Let me drink deep,
and stupefied upon your bosom sleep.

#303: February 20, 2007

I can't hate anybody when I'm drunk;
Three beers, the anger all just melts away.
I find my stores of surliness have shrunk,
And so, dizzy forgiveness wins the day.

I feel I could embrace those enemies
Whose very names send shivers down my spine;
Mountains of spite I've built up by degrees
For years disintegrate in casks of wine.

So pour the whiskey out, and let's be friends!
Let spirits overcome wrongs of the past.
Good alcohol can more than make amends
For sorrows; pity is, it will not last.

But while my hand curls round this glass of beer,
It's not a fist--so you've nothing to fear.

#279: January 27, 2007

Let's have a drink and sing another song,
clasp hands and wander back from now to then;
for moments here are short, and life is long,
and who knows when we'll come this way again.

The world is full of strangers, cads, and thieves,
and far too nearly empty now of friends;
the years fall through our arms like autumn leaves,
and happy seasons early meet their ends.

So come, embrace and call me by my name!
Lift up your glass, and I'll salute with mine.
In years to come, nothing will taste the same
except our love, and this fruit of the vine.

Let's drink our memories, for they are sweet--
My friend, my brother, till next time we meet.

#265: January 13, 2007

If I could stand to drink my whiskey neater,
Tequila without triple sec or lime,
It might not make this old life any sweeter,
But surely it would save a lot of time.

If I could down the gin without the tonic,
Or gulp martinis, holding the vermouth,
It wouldn't make my woes any less chronic,
But it would make them shorter, that's the truth.

But I can't drink my spirits any faster;
It's wine and beer that makes my soul-weight float.
And while that leaves me less prone to disaster,
It takes a while, and also gives me bloat.

It's sick, perhaps, but life can make you sicker;
And wine is fine, but liquor does it quicker.

#258: January 6, 2007

One night when God was drunk, and all the bars
in Heaven closed to Him, He flung his glass
at a speed limit sign, and told the cars
that honked for Him to Kiss His Holy Ass.

He stumbled past the mansions He had built--
the padlocked gates, the solid gold yard art--
and tried to muster thunder for the guilt
He felt, but managed just one strangled fart.

The Paradise P.D. called up His Son,
but only got the Answering Machine;
at Mary's, also, answer got they none,
but just as well: she always made a scene.

And so God slept it off in Eden Jail
until The Spook came by to post His bail.

#256: January 4, 2007

Forsooth, milady! Say what thou wouldst think
should I, a lowly shepherd of the moors
approacheth thee, and thus present this drink
from my hand (O, unworthy hand!) to yours?

Acceptance! Such delight cannot be told!
And, by success made brave, now should I press
advantage, like those generals of old,
whose small vict'ries engendered greater--yes?

See here, your hand in mine--oh, be not shy!
'Tis like a beauteous bloom cradled by earth!
Another drink? But if thy lips be dry,
a kiss to wet them is of greater worth--

Ambrosia! Thou dost cause the sun to shine!
Barkeep, the bill! Now love--my place, or thine?

#252: December 31, 2006

Maybe I'll be up till the ball comes down,
Throw some confetti, kiss my favorite girl;
Wearing a lampshade or a paper crown
I'll watch another year dawn on the world;

Perhaps I'll drink my fill of beer and wine
Or, rum punch-drunk, dance on the table tops;
Butcher two choruses of "Auld Lang Syne"
And keep it up till someone calls the cops;

But each new year's put gray hairs on my pate
And creased my skin where it was smooth before;
My brain complains when I keep it up late,
And I can't drink like I used to anymore.

So bring on bittersweet festivity,
and mourn the partiers we used to be.