T’was the night before Christmas
Santa lay on his bed
An ice cold wet cloth
Atop his “big head”
For after the reindeer
Were put back in the barn
He stopped for a “wee dram”
To spin an old yarn
Then somewhere between
The sixth and tenth stout
It seems that old Santa
Forgot what it was about
So amid tinkling of glass
And a drooping left eye
He left through the chimney
Without saying good-bye
Mrs Clause waved her finger
Her lips moving quickly
Santa heard nothing
He was feeling quite sickly
He saw in the window
The snickering elves
And threatened to put them
All back on their shelves
He swore to himself
This won’t happen again
Next time I will stop
Two stouts before ten
©12/16/2022
The Day They Took Robert E. Lee Down
A moment of silence for General Robert E. Lee
Who stood through time like a live oak tree
I had tears in my eyes in a front row seat
But when he was taken down in front of all to see
The pain was so bad, I had to get up and leave
After 24 Abita Bourbon Street Barrel Aged Imperial Stouts, I had to pee.
Festivals stirring me along, wild nights in youth spent.
Never a wish for none greater, but a few more moments lent.
Twirling amongst the crowds of night, they only fear the day.
Bright eyed Gibson girls, ignore what others say.
Stouts and porters make a good night, a one to last me ages.
My hand that tried to hold on to them, have long since turned the pages.
I pray those nights could find me here, so far away from youth.
They would not know me if they saw, now I am so long in tooth.
Monday nights
Are India pale ale,
Tuesdays
Stouts & porters.
Then comes
Whiskey Wednesday
& seven –
Tawny death
In slow sips.
You wonder
How it comes:
Sudden
Moonshine,
Stinging & harsh
Or in Canadian mists,
Buffalo traces, wild
Turkeys
Feral as forests
Or soft & rummy--
An easy sweet
Slipping to nothingness,
The last liqueurs
Liquid as eyes
Seeping silently
Through rye rivers
Rapidly rushing
Toward night.
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