Thou cold unopened tin of pure splendor,
Thou frosty gray tower of the Cheap Buzz,
You are the source of our endless benders
And memories of last night rimmed with fuzz.
Frat house historian, whose dents and bruises
Proclaim the ebb and flow of drunken brawls
And meeting the girls we dub our muses
Until they seem fit to turn blue our balls.
What game of beer pong did you drain your soul
So men could drink, profiting from your death?
What slut’s lips did kiss yours before she rolled
Into the arms of Bill, with whiskey breath.
Thou shalt remain, when all else seems to fail
Our friend, our pal, and release from the pits
We’ll sing highly your praise and tell your tale
Whilst dealing with the morning-after sh*ts.

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