Beer of the golden-colored even,
Companion of Fred, Bob, Joe and Stephen,
Why at the closing sounds of the fourth quarter whistle,
The empty keg makes us bristle.

So fair thy pilsner beauty foam
When soft the beer of Lite flows;
So due thy lager love returns
To bar rooms brighter than the rose;

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to drink
So kind a beer thou seems to be,
Sure some big female orbs entice above
Captures my mind as I meet with thee!

This is the breathing, blushing hour
When all heavy drinkers drink with power,
Chased by the stress-subduing power
Of beer’s delicious brew.

O! sacred to the start of kick off.
Queen of propitious tailgates, appear,
And early rise, and long delay.
When Sweet Caroline brings a beer!

Shine on our chosen oak resort
Whose stools the sunward summit crown,
And wanton bar stools, that well may court
A beer drinker’s feet to tread them down.

Thus, ever thus, at last call’s decline
We converse sweet and wander far—
O bring with thee my beer Sweet Caroline,
And thou shalt be my Dallas Star!

A poem by The Town Drunk
Exclusive to the FFD

I THINK that I shall never hear, 
of a drink more lovely than a beer.
 
A beer whose frothy foam is best
Savored while gawking at passing breasts;
 
A beer that helps me worship the porcelain god’s all day,
And lifts her foamy hops to spray;
 
A beer that may when teams do score
Knock rooting drunkards to the floor;
 
Upon whose empties many get lain;
By beer-goggling John to get intimate with Jane.

Poems are made by drunks and larks,
But only a beer can make me snarf.

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.

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

O Budweiser, My Budweiser! Our fearful trip is done,
The mug has weathered every crack, the broads we sought are won,
The porter is near, the froth I hear, the football fan’s exulting, While follow my bloodshot eyes the steady gal, the empty beer mug grim and daring;

But O Budweiser! Budweiser! Budweiser!
O the frothy drops of gold,
Where on the bar my empty bottle lies,
and all my bullshit told.

O Budweiser! My Bud! Rise up and hear the sound;
Rise up–for you the dick-dos hang, for you the swampy buttocks trill,
For you frothy heads and ribbed sheaths, for you the tramps a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying big ones, their eager lips turning;

Here Bud! Dear Sud!
This mug beneath your head!
It is some dream that at the bar,
Two broads request my bed.

My Budweiser does not answer, it’s an empty mug pale and still;
My tap does not feel my arm, it pours only “Lite” swill;

My derriere extraordinaire is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful taxi the victor blimp comes in with fantasy objects won;
Exult O Budweiser, and ring O hell!

But I, with mournful tread,
stumble my sidewalk to my house as I think of lies to tell my better half,
That Buds were far fewer as were the broads who sought my bed.

(Editor’s Note: With All apologies to Walt Whitman. In fact, perhaps this humor will prompt you to really read Walt Whitman)