With my face against the clock
and my ass against the burner,
Cocktail murderers
scour my bones.  

Tomorrow’s clansman
have no remorse.
Crude apostles
rule the state.  

Today relies on Photoshop,
but yesteryear less subtle:
there are times that stroke
and times that stab,  

and we are in neither one.
We deplete, not replace.
We fire up the barbeque,
crack a Sam Adams and
give away in-alienable rights.  

We crack a Sam Adams
and talk loud.
We crack a Sam Adams
and paint our ass with team colors:
blue, yellow, green
then vote discrimination.  

Our beerman, on the other hand
befriended Paine. Signed on for independence
but couldn’t cook a decent brew.
We crack a Sam Adams and
crack a Sam Adams and sometimes,
like old Sam, we blow the inheritance
on political clowns while Sam
occupies Boston Harbor.  

We crack a Sam Adams
and fart. Then laugh.
Split the pig
and snore til morning.
We crack a Sam Adams
and stare at tits.  

We crack a Sam Adams
and pray to our guns,
our gods, our gonads blue
and leathery.  

We crack a Sam Adams
and turn on the game,
our day of indenture hardly begun.