lite beer, like drunk-dial romance, cannot define a man
with its bland american watery froth
like the wall-stain from a murdered moth
can fill the stomach but will never fill the soul

crowds of meatheads put their mouths to the glory hole
and let whatever comes out sooth their taste bud ambitions
weighed down with a self-imposed crown and preconditions
for the three-word exclamations to the half-naked opposite sex

but who am i to judge a man
based on the transparency of his drink
when i myself order coors lite pints faster than aging perverts wink
creating something of a scene
with a polite but proud grin