Shakesbeer's Sonnet 18
Shall I compare thee to a pint of beer?
Thou art more tasty and more delicate:
Rough servers shake the glass that once was clear,
Real ale in bottles has a sell-by date:
Sometime the barrel's tapped and spiled too soon,
And often is its gold complexion cloudy,
And lonely evenings drunkenly decline,
By women's scorn, or if the bar is rowdy:
But thy intoxication shall not fade,
If down the thirsty neck strong brew is trickled,
Nor shall your liver fear that it's unmade,
When in eternal alcohol is pickled;
So serve ale, bitter, lager, stout to me:
As long as I can drink, I'll drink to thee.

No. 29 - 'Jon's ode to beer'
When in disgrace with Lori and my 'friends'
I drunkenly beweep my pointlessness
Till people think my moaning never ends,
And tell me more and more about the mess
My life is in, until I'm feeling hopeless,
Wishing like Phillip to be possess'd,
Desiring Toothgnip's panties, Diablo's cuteness
With what I most enjoy contented least:
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on beer, and then my star
(Like to the taste of IPA arising
To the lips) sings at 'Peculier's' bar
For that sweet ale partaken, brings such joy
That then I quite forget my life is void.

Phillip's soliloquy:
Hefe Weissbeer or not Hefe Weissbeer? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the liver to suffer
The mass-production of outrageous 'Lite's
Or drink real beer against a sea of blandness
And by opposing, end them. To drink, to smile-
And have another, and buy a drink to end
The heart-ache and the thousand sober shocks
The real world gives; 'tis an intoxication
Drunkenly to be wished. To drink: to smile,
To smile, perchance to fall over - aye, on the floor;
For with an I.P.A what grins may come,
When we have shuffled off the working day?
Real ale in pints: there's the beverage
That makes acceptable this lonely life.
For who would bear the laughing scorn of Lori,
Toothgnip's charm, Diablo's innocence,
The pangs of distant love, Frank Coffee's hair,
The insolence of Jay, and the abuse
That patient rodent of the alien takes,
When he himself might his heaven make
With a Hefe Weissbeer? Who would costume wear,
To be eccentric as the Geek Patrol,
But that the dread of closing time at last,
The unacceptable hour after whose bell
No alcoholic survives, frightens the will,
And makes us rather buy those beers we can
Than go to other bars we know not of?
Thus drinking does make drunkards of us all,
And thus the far-off concept of 'achievement'
Is washed away with pints and pints of beer,
And money-making schemes that could have worked
With pint in hand completely go to hell
And lose themselves in stupor.