Down I looked, vexed; I found wet dregs: el poso*—
Not swell this sludge left after a brew swirl.
Night time had found me in Rosa’s cantina;
On the beer’s label: a big-breasted girl.

Lacking a dime to buy more beer can mean a
Painful and protracted nasty dry spell.
Pockets ain’t deep; every cent that I’d made in
The week was spent. . .can’t go back to the well.

Last night a wild drunk dough boy I’d been,
Wetting my whistle again.
Cash in unsparing;
My swag I was sharing.
Drinks in the cantina. . .
The girl with big jugs.

Now in anger I

Find that I’m dry; the big bust on the maiden
Won’t lift my spirits, ’cause I’m wanting more
Of the “milk” from a bottle and not from a teat,
But all I have is dregs, and I’m getting sore!

Glugged mugs of ferment I love, no denying,
The kind that emerge from a brewing tun.
But there is naught but some foam and spit in there—
Bottle now void as the cooch of a nun.

Then through my mind an oasis thought ran
As my mouth and bottle dried.
Some folks drink and run
To continue their fun,
Leaving bottles with some ounces inside.

So then, snatch could I

From these abandoned beer bottles el poso—
Not a bad plan, though some risk of mono.

Drafts of el poso that others thought worthless
Rolled down my throat; I drank all that was left.
Any brand, not just that of the young maiden
Who’s raised a stein and who’s got a raised chest.

I guzzled down every drop I could stow,
Some of them light and some dark.
No need to borrow buck bills, I just find the
Bottles that contain at least some liquid part.

So at last, beer plied

To my tummy, even though it’s el poso;
Most would find this act demeaning, I know.
My glugs aren’t long, but I push them all downward—
OK! It’s swill on my gut I bestow.

Off to my right I count five part-filled carboys**—
Oh what a night! This will be my big score.
Mouthing then shooting it down, it will drench me,
But they seem to have a taste I abhor.

Something is dreadfully wrong with this deal
As deep to my gullet it slides,
And I am certain that quite soon a gag’ll
Erupt from me and there’ll be a spew tide.

What I’d drunk was

What streams from a schlong when the bladder is swollen
And there’s a pee spree till all is expressed.
It appears some guys had no time to stifle
It until they could reach the room of rest.

Then el piso of the cantina found me
Spritzing up leaks from my aggrieved insides.
Here’s some advice: for the dregs do not try score—
It could be piss in container resides.


*dregs
**container with a typical capacity of 5 to 15 gallons