I like to drink beer

I like to drink beer

I don’t like what it does to me

but I like having a quiet conversation with a cold pint

at the end of a hard day,

or at a stupid party, where I don’t know anybody,

or at my nephew’s naming ceremony,

during my own wedding,

then once more, during the divorce,

while being told that I am a drunk and a loser,

or in my car, driving,

while running over someone,

then in the jail cell,

at the superintendent’s desk,

or on the streets,

being beaten to a pulp.

I don’t want to be cremated,

I wish to be buried, with a cold one,

wouldn’t want to be sober on my way to hell.


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