Beer: February 1998

Two's the limit to leave the bar,
two makes my home seem way too far.
That's when I start to settle in,
for a battle which I never win.
Two beers it takes to kill my will,
and make me stay to drink my fill.

The night now looms for hours more,
before I move to find the door.
I know I'm stuck for all that time,
with beer to keep my thoughts sublime.
I've tried my new beers for the night,
I'm ready to give up that fight.

A single beer now calls to me,
and it alone I want to see.
Belgians make it, but too sweet,
and they don't even call it wheat.
Berliners brew it far too tart,
the tastes are just a world apart.

Bavarians, they know their beer.
And now it's their's that I want near.
Weizen beer is calling me,
and that's all that I want to see.
Before I'll let this yearning pass,
I get my bottle and my glass.

I grab the glass and start the pour,
knowing that I'll soon drink more.
In it goes, and slowly flows
up to the rim and stops to pose.
Foam reaching up over the edge,
that's when I add the lemon wedge.

The time has come to start to sip,
the beer flows in over my lip.
Sips quickly start to grow in size,
as beer goes down before my eyes.
The first one done, I ask for more,
this drinking thing can be a chore.

The second one goes just as fast,
no way that it will be my last.
The third one asks for number four,
which asks me to concede this war.
But I stand firm, or rather sit,
I tell the beers I just won't quit.

I'd like to say I thought this through,
and six became the line I drew.
But no line I drew would be that straight,
my total then was nearing eight.
That I got cut off, is more correct,
the bar was closed, and I was wrecked.

So as I staggered home that night,
I wondered in beerlike delight.
Had I won this war I'd waged,
with all the beer my stomach caged?
And as I passed out in my bed,
work in four hours was what I dread.

-- phillip karlsson, brew guru
february 08, 1998