The chap buried here
Died drinking small beer.
They all called him Len,
A fine sergeant major.

Down through the years,
To hisses and jeers,
The beers he consumed
Were all minor, I wager.

Landlords saved dregs
And put them in kegs,
Then gave them to Len
When he stumbled near.

The public was fuming.
A crisis was looming.
But Len never did like
A good pint of beer.

Till death knocked at his door
To even the score
And Len finally swore
He'd change his libation.

His life kept receding,
Though he never stopped pleading,
"I'll drink better beer
If it means my salvation."

But sad and bereft,
There was no time left.
And as you can see,
Len's no longer here.

Friends, heed this report
When indecision is near.
Life is too short
To drink shitty beer.

---saint obnoxious