It's Monday, How about some beer poems?

"Oi fanceed a pint o thee bitta,
Tho me woif bid me steye,
For oi jost got me peye,
She's jost lucky oi dint op an hitta"

Cheers

An old Irish poem I made up this morning on the way to work.

I put this one on a bottle of my IIPA

Once I sipped the beer too dearly, malt and yeast but hops not nearly,
dreamt of Homulus Lupulus and IBUs I'd had before.
While once drinking, nay, rethinking, suddenly my palate shrinking,
as if lack of some key flavor, beckoned forth to settle score.
'Malt is fine,' I muttered, 'clearly I had been too sure -
grains and yeast and nothing more.'

But this feeling, itching deeply on the tongue consumed me,
The need for yeast and malt and something more,
For something's missing, nigh, I was reminiscing,
of something with lupulin that I'd felt before.
Within my head screamed something I'd been looking for -
Quoth my taste buds, 'HOP IT MORE!'

The Tavern, by Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (1207 – 1273)

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
And I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
But who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of beer, but no cups.
That’s fine with us. Every morning
We glow and in the evening we glow again.

They say there’s no future for us. They’re right.
Which is fine with us.

Beer, by Charles Bukowski, from Love is A Mad Dog From Hell (1920 – 1994)

I don’t know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I don’t know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women—
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
“what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can **** me!”

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows it’s bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horny cowboys.

well, there’s beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.

LOL

Beers, a spoof of Joyce Kilmer’s Trees (1886 – 1918)

I THINK that I shall never hear
A poem lovely as a beer.
A brew that’s best straight from a tap
With golden hue and snowy cap;
The liquid bread I drink all day,
Until my memory melts away;
A beer that’s made with summer malt
Too little hops its only fault;
Upon whose brow the yeast has lain;
In water clear as falling rain.
Poems are made by fools I fear,
But only wort can make a beer.

Those are some good ones, any more? come on guys.

Here's an old short one from my grandpa, it's kinda wierd.

"I went upstairs to get some cider,
Saw a bed bug jackin' off a spider,
I went downstairs to get some gin,
There he was a doin it again"

I think it was a true story, Hey anything can happen when you mix cider and gin, that's probably when he stopped drinking.:cross: