Beer is Better Than Me
I am not bold.
I am not clear.
I am not crisp.
Lord, you can see
that I have a problem.
Beer is better than me.
So, I'd like to ask you something lord
Will you turn me into my favorite beer?
One with integrity from the Untamed Yukon?
Can you make me Ice Brew Lord?
Can you make me bold?
Or make me a Mexican import,
all suave and cosmopolitan.
I want people to order me
with italics in their voices
Dos Equis with limon barkeep.
Make me a sturdy microbrew,
handpicked by the sturdy citizens
of a quaint English village,
a place where folks ride one-
speed bikes wearing knit caps.
Make me a raspberry wheat summer ale,
earthy yet exclusive. A beer containing
free-range oatbran. There's a couple drinking me
wearing $100 Birkenstocks and glasses from
the Armani Collection. By their third
sip they have saved the entire rainforest
and a school of harpoon whales.
Or maybe I want to live for today, lord.
So make me Schlitz, couples on the beach
boozing away and peeing in the dunes.
People who love Sammy Hagar and Def Leppard.
Chicks with Sta-puf hair and guys named Dwayne.
I want everyone to be fuddled, loosy-goosy, stinko
with drink. I want a bonfire with lobsters
in a huge pot. I want all the couples to hook up
at 3am and make love till breakfast.
I want them to forget that work ever
existed. That Mondays ever existed.
Or make me Bud, The King. Not like YOU
the King. But still. When I am poured the
Swedish Bikini Team shows up at the pool
in buttfloss. Self-conscious guys suddenly
become two-fisted he-men who OWN THE NIGHT.
Bookish women become heroines
from a Van Halen song. They play
pool and lean over the table. They
strut with the pure, unassailable power
of beauty, like the uppity cheerleaders
they hated in high school. They resolve
to buy a halter-top or something lycra.
I'm not asking for much lord.
I'm not asking for eternal life.
In fact, I want you to age me.
In beechwood. For a flavor
that never lets you down.
Think about it. If I
can be that good,
why ask why?