To bullsh*t, or to party, that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The bitter bite and metallic pang of Natty Lite,

Or to sacrifice currency on the altar of drinkability

And by doing so once never do again for weeks. To drink—to party,

No more; and by party to say we end

The head-ache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to: 'tis an achievement

Devoutly to be wish'd. To health, to sobriety;

To sobriety, perchance to hook-up nevermore—ay, there's the rub.

For in that fog of clarity what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off the hollow cans and bottles,

Must give us pause. There's the respect

That makes an outcast of such straight edged life.

For who would bear the whispers and disbelief of peers,

Th' oppressor's wrong, yet wise man's detachment

From the joys of instant love, the sun’s delay,

The community of the rebellious, and the rewards

That make worth of th' otherwise foolish overtures  

Who himself might truly make mistakes and dares undertake

Without some pride in his own humanity? Who would truly abstain,

To grunt and sweat on a weary dancefloor,

But a floor weary only until revitalized after another run, another handle;

The undiscovered landscape of a kickback, from whom is bourn

The perfect environment, the elusive ratio,

And makes us bear those ills of all small gatherings

Than fly to others that we know not of?

This mindset does make cowards of us all,

Creating the sepreate word, removed from actual day’s life

Sicklied o'er with the piercing scruntiny of morning,

But in the moment of the great pitch and pong

The reservations and regards of tomorrow turn awry

And all embrace standards never otherwise held.

Soft you now,

The fair [Insert Name]! — Nymph, in thy actions

Faceless and replaceable, yet tonight my world,

Be all my sins remembered.