Wednesday, August 17, 2016
by Jim Rapp
As a newcomer to Eastridge Estates
he felt obliged to volunteer for something,
so he offered to take Bill S’s place
grilling brats for the monthly Eastridge fling.
Little did he know the brats were required to be
beer brats! His mother would be spinning if,
from her Nazarene grave, it happened that she
could see or know the awful moral cliff
her son had voluntarily fallen from.
No drop of that lethal Devil’s brew
had crossed her threshold; now her son
was popping 16 ouncers by the twos.
Like Lot of old he’s pitched his tent toward
Sodom, vexed his righteous soul satisfying
ninety year-old’s craving for liquor and lard;
it’s beer-besotted brats that he’s supplying.