Charge of the Lite Beer Brigade!

A poem by The Town Drunk
Exclusive to the Football Fan’s Diet!

Half a keg, half a keg,
Half a keg onward,
All in the party of Death
hiccupped the six hundred.
“Forward, the Lite keg!
“Charge for the cups!” he said:
Into the party of Death
wigged the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Keg!”
Was there a frosh dismay’d?
Not tho’ the frat boys knew
Someone had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to drink beast and die:
Into the party of Death
drank the six hundred.

Jokers to right of them,
Clowns to left of them,
Townies in front of them
chugged and wondered;
Storm’d at with jello shot and dorito shell,
Boldly they drank and pounded,
Into the breasts of Death,
Into the mouth of Horny co-eds.
reeled the six hundred.

Flash’d all their johnsons’ bare,
Flash’d as they party’d in air,
Sabring their Johnsons’ there,
Charging each other, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the frat house-smoke
Right thro’ the coke lines broke;
Freshman and Senior
Reel’d from the keg stand stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they walked back to class on Monday, but not
Not the six hundred.

Classes to right of them,
deans to left of them,
parents behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with “what the hells?”,

While stipends and grant money fell,
They that had partied so well
Came thro’ the party of Death
Back from the frat house of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild party they made!
All the misfits wondered.
Honor the keg stand they made,
Honor this beer Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

Editor’s Note: Forgive us Lord Tennyson.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS