From Concentrate

She drank a liquor never brewed
          From tankards scooped in pearl.
Our brew-master can't match it quite,
          A lesser god,
          A Miller Lite.

His friendships were a steady splendor; in the end
          Into their radiance he'd blend.                           
The Miller-god blends spirits too,
          Booze'm buddies.
          This Buds for you.

He loved pied beauty, dappled things, all couple color,
          Fickle, freckled rose-moles, a-dazzle dim.
Theirs is unvarigated scenery,
          Flawless, Chem-Lawn greenery.
          Praise them?

Falstaff lamented, "fritters of English,
          Meal and bran together, no distinction."
We don' need no stinkin' 'stinction
          In our English muffin, see.
          Nobody don' like Sara Lee.

He had promises to keep,
          And miles to go before he'd sleep.
But, Brother, I'm nobody's keeper.
          I'm conscience-free,
          A Serta-Perfect sleeper.

Weakened by time and fate,
          Aged Ulysses forsook Ithaca for the field,
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
          Fully insured, no messy fate, we have it made...
          From concentrate.