by Robert Prost
Whose beer this is I think I know
(Her face is on the label, yo)
She would not mind me sitting here
To drink this beer. Santé! Cheers! Prost!
My other friends must think it queer
To drink without a buddy near
Post-work and yet still wide awake
The perfect time to spend with peers.
I give my ale-filled head a shake
To say, “Nope, there is no mistake
I like to sip my beer alone
My thirst I can too solo slake.”
This brew is malty, dark – mine own
A beer for one I could condone
There’s nowhere I feel more at home
There’s nowhere I feel more at home.
[One of my many tributes to Robert Frost’s timeless poem]