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Just add beer and abracadabra . . . 
Flavor galore! 
Just don’t add too much . . . 
Alcoholism is a disease. 
It should cook out though. Anyway, I hope it’s not too cheesy. 
Some of you are saying, not again! 
Others, it’s about time. 
Personally, I’ve been eating this site up 
By the bowlfuls.  One after another.  I’m all fired up.  Or is it amped up. 
Regardless, it’s like finding a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. 
This stuff is saving me . . . yes, you, you are all saving me! 
Chef Poetry, you rock! 
Absolutely the best soup I’ve ever eaten.
Spiritually addictive. And no calories. 
Better than any recipe found on the bookshelves at Barnes & Noble. 
Amazon has nothing on you.  You’re on my Best Sellar’s list. 
Oops, it’s free! “Get your free soup!” 
Exclaims the salesman in the stadium of nowhere, nourishing any soul to da max foreva, “Cost you nothing and guaranteed to fill you up.” 
If I could can it, I’d call it “Best Kine soup in the World.” 
Fresh outta da kitchen. Just add another can of beer, not water.  
Then heat and serve. 
I’ve gotta six pack in the fridge.  Keeping it chill. 
Drank two and saving the other four for Julie.  Somethings never change. 
I’m going to send them up . . . via an escalator to Heaven. 
If only you could see me now . . .
Lonely as ever but not alone.  Still unmarried and still under your curse. 
Still not living with our son, even though he’s seventeen in a 30-year-old frame. A product of the State.  A product of our sad sad times. 
College campuses harass students who have nothing to do with the war overseas. 
More than likely, they're just trying to get a good education. 
Most of them imports like all of US citizens, living the “dream.” 
Maybe, even the coming of the Messiah, they believed never came,
Will come again . . . soon. 
Koka Peli must be laughing his pants off.  Howling pipedreams to the moon. 
Playing his flute in the wind. 
He’s still my boy, my manchild that is. Throw me a bone, woman. Set us free. 
Release our hearts from your grip.  Give us a holy hug of reassurance,
that all is not lost. 
I’m drowning my tears in a bowl of soup.  I may be slurring my words. 
Making my keyboard wet.  I always was a lite weight. 
Dipping oyster crackers in it, one at a time.  One after another. 
I love oysters.  And beer and oysters make good soup.
Goddess, bless her soul. 

So, I thank you for filling my belly . . .  with your kine soup. 
And it is my hope that you’ve been enjoying mine.
         Hopefully just as satisfying. 
                           Have a beer, on me.
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