Day 4: Beer

Keats wrote about wine and bubbles "winking at the rim"
Screw that, I'm going to write about beer.  Beer. That's right
Beer.

No "beakers of the warm south" of the "blushful Hippocrene"
Just light pale yellow piss water 3.2 beer that is mocked for
Its aluminum-canned goodness, and jeered at as pedestrian for
Simpletons

No, no, I shall sing of shit beer--loudly and drink three more
Without even winking at the rim, sharp silver cutting my lip
I might even believe I hear a nightingale after six, and I'm sure
That I know the answers to everything and that I am the best
Poet

And it is all the same, because like Keats, I'll be drunk then
And no matter how much you fancy up being drunk with
References to Bacchus and his pards or viewless wings of
Poetry cluster'd around by Fays like some fucking bad
Victorian tableaux, you are still drunk, and it is called "passing
out"

I'll fade then into the tender arms of day drunk solemnity
On my puke green polyester couch, embalmed in darkness
Because I have closed the goddamned curtains to keep out
The daylight.  Yeah, Keats, guzzle down that wine, but
You better drink a shit-ton of water before you hit the sack
Otherwise you are in a world of hurt when you ask if you wake
Or sleep