Best Booze Poems
At first he drank to be one of the boys
To act a bit rowdy, to make some noise
He couldn't resist all the teen peer pressure
Just couldn't say 'No;' had to say 'Yes sir'
Off to college he went to the land of beer tents
Where drinking's the pastime of well-educated gents
Our hero could be found, where pop-tops did sound
Stumbling drunkenly around, or face down on the ground
Armed with a degree, into the world of business he marched
Just like in college, he found his throat dry and parched
At midday he made time to imbibe a liquid lunch
From Monday to Friday, he dipped his cup in the pun
One rain-pouring day, he wobbled to his car
Jumped on the freeway, to fight the rush-hour war
Only this time, reflexes, lulled to sleep by drink
He drove into the guardrail, and his life went 'clink'
His family and friends feigned surprise at the news
They didn't believe what you can lose when you booze...
I met my wife before the booze
which sounds nicer than the truth
because before the booze was **** and drugs
and the mother of my first child, you know,
that chick I used to love.
I met my wife after the great exchange,
which is a regal title that directly conflicts with the darkness
that arises in every conversation in which the travesty is mentioned.
The mother of my first child, you know,
that chick I used to love
I got her pregnant when she was 17, angry,
a victim of divorced parents and confused about her sexuality.
I commissioned her parents,
gave them half the cost of an abortion and decided
the fate of my child who wasn’t born yet.
And like I said, she was 17
between her parents and me she had no choice in the matter.
I met my wife the month my dog died,
so I was very fragile, confused
hell, I was grown man in baby shoes
and I will not soon forget watching my best friend croak
and the irony that the poison that did him was pink bubbly liquid
the reminded me of bubblegum. Bubble yum!
That was the day that my dad put his hand on my shoulder
after I had given the command to the doctor to my dog down
and he said “Son, you’re a man today” and I said “Thanks dad”
Then turned around and cried at the fact that that day was my birthday.
I wish I could say that this had a happy ending
I’m just glad to say it’s not a bad one
The booze is still my friend, but it is no longer my mistress.
My wife, she was a knife to me
that stabbed me through the heart when I thought that I was heartless
she twisted it just enough to bleed and bled out the darkness
I just want to say thank you to her and to the God who believes in me
for giving up such precious freedom
to the one that believed that he was actually free.
No Sweat Revisions (Booze Helps)
Poet speaks:
“To write a poem you can easily revise
it’s best to use free verse,
for it requires so little thinking and
besides with thought could come content
revisions just might lose.
Why take any chances?”
Reader speaks:
"Whatever does he mean?
My God this guy is deep!
Most modern stuff is so opaque,
but here the words are clear. Though
purpose perhaps is over my head,
I feel like I’m really hearing it!”
Poet speaks:
"Why write at all," I hear you say,
"If folks can't understand? Well,
because it makes revision work
a snap for any poetry class
where content can be subordinate
to breaking writer’s block.
Why sweat the big stuff?
Free verse must be free!”
The Muse breaks in:
"Why you could spend your life on one poem
and ignore your experience completely,
just writing stuff in stanza form,
an indent here, enjambment there,
here an indent, there enjambment,
everywhere a piggy, piggy, piggy piggy!
Old MacDonald wrote a poem
E-I-E-I-O”
Poet Speaks:
“I’m confused! Without content
what makes the poem mine?
Is my writing it enough?
Though I’ll confess that scanning
published literature seems unlikely
to reveal any plagiarism.
Can writing without content
ever be copyrighted I wonder?”
The Muse muses, ponders philosophical possibilities:
“Well if you have revised the poem
and the new version is clearly no worse
than the original, who cares
if it is no better?
You really tried after all.
You followed instructions.
What’s in a grade?
And no new title needed.”
Brian Johnston
May 26, 2015
are you with me, you drowsy pen?…this world is a
freakin’ distorted place. we are scribbling
like mites in pillow fights: dirty nails we have become ,
contagious as micro germs trying to make
sense of all the fake reality clinging to sleek fuzz,
pizzaz and all that jazz… ‘cmon, we are all fragile.
we’re all gonna die. so why be drugged by
penning a Lindsay Lohan kind of intoxication?
look at you, ink! swiveling like whims of tipsy lines.
far too many blots on your made-up tip…
geez, those pop culture digs scanning cosmo hours
with whisky gulps of idle entertainment, you know,
the scratch of feeble hands sucking materialistic
greed. do you think you’re rotten smart in hurried
thoughts of instant gratification? this is for real, for real.
and listen up: have you written about the will of
a spirit for true love of self, of flowers and others?
nope, not the kind you feel when intoxicated phrases
are riddled with booze shots… life goes on, every second,
every written word. there's something
unspeakably beautiful about it all...if only you and i
can share the flow of some kind of wonder without greed.
you’re wasted! pik-bam-boom, take my alcoholic
breaths to the top; see that there is no before or after.
just one rare, pure “ now” moment: damn it’s for real, for real…
our lives are a good freakin’ thing, isn’t it? hey, you’re dozing off !
©
by nette onclaud
for Elliott Bowe’s Drink Drunken Pen
He went home gaily after a few pegs
Fell onto his bed dangling his soiled legs
Blissfully fell asleep soon
His wife came calling him “loon”
Falling from bed, he felt her hefty kicks
May.19. 2023
Funny, Bawdy or Humorous Limerick Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Tania Kitchin
10 syllables in lines 1, 2 and 5
7 syllables in lines 3 and 4
Carrie Nation was renown for her scorn
For the havoc caused by john barleycorn
She wielded her axe causing dire consternation
Wrecking bars with what she termed a "hatchitation"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
You watch the news and see all those louts
who drink and abuse, by making fools of themselves
To fix their spews, so they don’t go south
let’s not sell them booze, to feed their mouth
This is for that certain someone who has everything.
If they take an occasional drink, this would make their bell ring.
It’s an invention that will certainly appear keen.
Why not give that loved one an instant booze machine?
This contraption makes fresh hooch on the spot.
Doesn’t this seem like a holiday gift idea that’s hot?
Just mix the powder with water, and voila!
We can have instant whiskey, bourbon, or vodka.
It also makes decent gin, brandy, and tequila.
So take that credit card, and rush out to the store.
Your friend will never run out of booze anymore.
I'm no good in a kitchen but, I can cook stuff all the same
Around here, say "the recipe" and most folks know my name
It hasn't changed in fifty years, and folks still drink it up
I've been making it with my granddad since I was just a pup
I"ve been racing cars through out these woods since before most learn to drive
I've been chased by cops and revenuers, I surprised I'm still alive
The funny thing, they know the route, and I always make the border
Because if they ever caught me, I would just cancel their order
Magic comes from our hard toil
Once it travels through the coil
We cook it slow on a low boil
It's cooked according to old Hoyle
It's magic in a glass
And it'll put you on your ass
In all the years that we've been cooking we've only moved on twice
Not because the cops found us, but because of all the mice
Grandpappy started cooking when the jobs round here dried up
And me, I've been his helper since I was just a pup
Everyone's on credit, we all live on iou's
There's still no jobs around here, there just isn't no good news
But, if folks round here need healing, we've got magic in a jug
Our granddads old elixir is a moonshine mountain hug
Magic comes from our hard toil
Once it travels through the coil
We cook it slow on a low boil
It's cooked according to old Hoyle
It's magic in a glass
And it'll put you on your ass
Booze Squad
Tonight should have taken place in July, my birthday night out.
A dozen weekly tattoos stopped that.
It was a frosty December evening when we went to a few pubs for a beer.
Frozen ground echoed our footfalls,
ice threatened to trip us and cold gnawed our extremities.
There was nothing like that first beer in the pub
where a real coal fire was burning like a meteor.
Not been in that pub since I was married,
fifteen years ago.
Seven more pubs followed,
a collage of different beers,
chasing a lovely married brunette round the pub after she stole my cap,
kissing a tattooed gal and saying when are we going out?
Other blurry images:
meeting an old mate and talking about swinging and fetish clubs,
taking a book about Goethe and a hundred year old dictionary from a pub library,
pursuing unsuitable women whose partners hovered close by and finally,
chicken kebab and chips in the curry house.
More beer would have flowed but my cash went kaput.
Bring on the next session, it’ll be ten pints!
Be sure you lay off the booze.
If not, it's certain you'll lose.
That's something not to forget
when playing blackjack or roulette.
The girls bring drinks all the time.
They're the house’s partners in crime.
They get you drunk to get your money.
Soon it will be gone. That's not funny.
You will reach into your pocket, and there will be no more.
Without any money, you will soon be out the door.
There was a venerable little lady by the name of Carrie Nation,
Who crossed the country wielding an axe creating consternation!
Her mission was to ban demon rum from sea to shining sea,
By busting bottles, barrels and kegs on her daring and righteous spree!
Her disciples, no raving beauts chanted: "Lips that touch liquor shall not touch ours!"
Eliciting a reponse from the guys: "Boys! Bring on the beer and whiskey sours!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
I don't know what people are thinking,
when they are planning,
on going out and drinking,
cause the very next day,
they wake up late,
leave the house in a panic state,
their skin looking a little green,
and all of a sudden they go from nice,
to mean,
they say that their stomach feels sour,
that's cause they shoulda took a shower,
they say they had a blast,
but can't figure out why,
their arms in a cast,
to me,
this does not sound very fun,
and that's why my days of drinking,
are done......
Booze Alert
A drunk and his friend encountered a ghost
Alarmed and surprised they struggled to stand
One friend showed no fear and was known to boast
Of withstanding demons who were his hosts
The other friend freaked and stood in his track
Don’t worry old sot for I have your back
He took a deep breath and exhaled a BOO!
The ghost shuttered once but it stood its ground
The drunk not deterred prepared to resound
The ghost liquified a hideous brew
To startle the drunk, its tentacles grew
He shouted the word, again and again
The ghost disappeared with all its ooze
He vanquished the ghost with just some BOO..ZE!
Ralph Sergi© May 27, 2019
True truth... I've never heard of any liver
that was a friend of drink... no matter how noble it may be...
Scotch whiskey, French champagne, dirty-stemmed cane,
cachaça that killed the guard, Hemingway's piña colada
Artisanal beer (factory or home-brewed beer)
it can handle more or less a cup of tea... of boldo...!