WHY I DRINK BEER
by Rudyard Kipple (nom de plume)
June 2006
I don't drink beer to make me wise,
Or enhance my gifts in women's eyes,
To have my jokes break up the bar,
Or make girls prettier than they are.
I don't drink beer to slack my thirst,
Or solve the ills of the universe,
To make me mellow, meek, and mild,
Or turn me into some wild child.
I don't drink beer to forget,
Everything that I regret,
Of the sad days of loves long lost,
Or the pound of flesh that each one cost.
I don't drink beer to recall,
The "honey do" list tacked to the wall,
Or how far I hit that golf ball,
Or the glory days of some pub-crawl.
I do drink beer because I found
A worthy brew for every round.
And all good things will come to pass,
If I simply raise a glass.
A glass, of the patron saint of brew;
St. Arnold's has the taste that's true.
The little beer that beat the odds,
To become the nectar of the gods.
Whether Bock or Pils, Stout or Weizen,
Each beer has its special season.
And if there is no other reason
Drinking else would be high treason.
Brown or Amber, dark or light,
Though I try with all my might,
It's such a great variety
That makes moderation of sobriety.
So lift a glass of Reserve Divine
And make a toast with the sublime.
With the army raise your voice,
St. Arnold's is our beer of choice!"
Read more about our Divine Reserve series...
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ODE TO DIVINE RESERVE #2
By Rudyard Kipple (nom de plume)
July 2006
When the days grow long in Houston town,
And the summer sun starts beating down.
When grackles sing their grating song,
As sleepy cicadas strum along,
When all the grass is dry and brown,
There is a summer thirst to big to drown.
Then a miracle is made on Fairway Park.
St. Arnold sets a new bench mark,
With hops and barley, malt and yeast
Brewed and aged, blessed by the priest.
Pouring poetry in every bottle.
An epiphany in every swallow,
Taking the brewer's art to perfection
With Divine Reserve - an immaculate conception
Then summer heat will melt in June,
And all the grackles sing in tune.
The cicadas now play violin.
The great summer thirst
Will be submersed,
And the Astros always win.
But, as quick as it has come,
We must go back where we are from.
Hope is less and joy is gone.
Every song sung by a swan.
Again the sun comes burning down
Every face now wears a frown.
Children whine and grown-ups cry.
The Divine Reserve has run dry.
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