Slainte!!
Ale does more than Milton can
To justify God's ways to Man.
When I finally expire, the thing I require
is a barrel of beer at my head and feet;
and all the sad mourners, such as they are,
should certainly NOT arrive by car:
they'll be unable to drive when the wake's complete!
When I was young, I stuck my tongue
into me Daddy's pint, I was no more than five;
O -- a strange taste, a need for exploration,
the start of a lifelong adoration:
no sense of sinning, just an early beginning!
Whatever age you are, stand up at the bar,
and if your nose, by God, peeks over the rail,
and if you can pay for what you think you deserve
the old-time barmen would chuckle and serve:
them charmin' barmen; just the one , never fail!
With laughter and tears, over many long years,
there's been a fair amount of time in liquid locations;
exhilaration and anger, yes, these I have seen --
and a whole gamut of feelings inbetween:
yet my dealings are smooth with friends and relations!
It's difficult not to let
things get you upset.
A lightly controlled beer-aholic
can mentally leap and frolic,
and avoid the sour and sober juices
that pride (and sister envy) induces.
There's nothing wrong with a rosy glow
if it bucks you up, and helps you know
that your life is a comet in the sky:
you are born, you live, you die.
But when I look back, I can't keep track
of all the beery idylls that have kept me sane;
not a bad oul' life, many a sudsy day
in spite of AA and what puritans say:
Yoho! -- hey, hey -- let's start up again!
