December 2020
The Poetry of Beer
Charles Duffy
The Reason Why
The horse and mule live thirty years
And never know of wine and beers.
The goat and sheep at twenty die
Without a taste of scotch or rye.
The cow drinks water by the ton
And at eighteen is mostly done.

The dog at fifteen cashes in
Without the aid of rum or gin.
The modest, sober, bone-dry hen
Lays eggs for noggs and dies at ten.

But sinful, ginful, rum-soaked men
Survive three-score years and ten.
And some of us, though mighty few
Stay pickled 'til we're ninety-two.
Read more Beer Muse in the
Liam Flynn
The Poet

Well, you see, this beer,
it is so very fine;
I’m beginning to think
I could speak in rhyme;
I was so sad, but now I so shine;
I’m beginning to think
I could speak in rhyme.
(based on "Wine" by Stan Dupp)

Brian Wynch
Beer, Beer, Beer

Long time ago, way back when all
there was to drink was nothin
but cups of tea.
Along came a man by the name
Charlie Mops,
and he invented a wonderful drink

and he made it out of hops.

He must have been an admiral,
a sultan or a king,
and to his praises we shall always sing.
Look what he has done for us he's filled
us up with cheer!
Lord bless Charlie Mops, the man who
invented beer beer beer
tiddly beer beer beer.
Edwin Abbott
Beer For Breakfast

‘Who has not tasted of Hodgson’s
pale beer
With its flavour the finest that
hops ever gave?
It drives away sadness,
it banishes fear,
And imparts a glad feeling of
joy to the grave.

Oh! to drink it at morning,
when just from our bed
We rise unrefreshed, and
to breakfast sit down,
The froth-crested brimmer
we raise to our head,
And in swigging off Hodgson, our
sorrows we drown.

Or to drink it at tiffin, when thirsty
and warm,
We say to the khidmutgar*,
“bring me some beer,”
Soon, soon do we feel its most
magical charm,
And quickly the eatables all disappear.

Or at ev’ning, when home from
our ride we return,
And jaded and weary we sit
down to dine;
We ask but for Hodgson, and
willingly spurn
The choicest the dearest the
rarest of wine.

Then hail to thee Hodgson!
of Brewers the head,
Thy loss we in India would sadly bewail;
May you live long and happy, and
when you are dead,
1 will think of you daily whilst
drinking your ale.
Tom T. Hall
Fill My Glass

Give me champagne
I won't complain.
If that's the best you can do.

But if you've got class
Fill my glass
With Oklahoma homebrew.


Dan Reed

One day my mouth felt so dry
And I thought I was about to die.
Then I saw the word “Beer”,
And one salty tear
Of happiness escaped from my eye.

It’s true what the say about ale,
When it has grown quite stale.
It smells like a skunk,
But still gets you drunk;
I guess that’s why this was on sale.

What is to our hearts so dear?
What makes the whole world cheer?
What is it we praise
In millions of ways —
Could it be a thing other than Beer?!
Submit your poem HERE
BeerNexus Does not authentic authorsip of submitted poems.