Posted on April 30th, 2011
Once upon a time, he told it thus,
There was a band whose name was Theseus:
Of Athens they were lord and governor,
And of battles band nightly conquerors
Greater band not seen beneath southern sun.
Full many a fat contest’s purse had they won,
With their ancient rocking wizardry
They gained each club’s resident Femininity,
Be they pure or fraught with Chlamydia.
There bedded they their queens from NVIDIA,
In outfits dictated by those in WoW country
For a math-rock band were they, of great pageantry,
With songs well known across bit-great sea.
And thus, securing victory with each melody,
Met I this great band in Athens, high
On herbal host and joint most wide.
And in truth, were it not too long to hear,
I would recount each hookup from that year,
As each conquest grew in passing legendarily
Thanks to Theseus and their minstrelry,
And of all the battles band whose tunes were wrought
From vinyl that each member in Athens bought,
From Georgia’s music depths such bacchanalia,
To make maiden blush redder than poinsettia,
And of the jests made of beer’s pants-wetting,
And of the storm made by their chord begetting;
But all of that I must now forbear.
I have, lord knows, a Coachella’s worth of word to share,
Though weak be my meter, my rhymes hang tough,
The rest of the tale is quite long enough.
I will not talk over any, in my turn,
Let each bandmate tell his tale, that we might learn
Which of us most deserves the ale to win;
So where I paused, again will I begin.
This band of whom I speak, of great renown,
Upon whose heads hung rock’s great crown,
In grog well-steeped, clothed in cow hide,
I grew aware, casting prejudice aside,
That they might not drink, as gentlemen do,
But were quaffing Popov, and inferior brew,
Their belts no black could hide strain they made
Against such empty caloric cavalcade
And of no better drink had their ears made heard
Not of IPA nor barley wine, upon my word!
Nor would they allow such drinks however poor, to last
Straight did they chug them with throats full fast.
What dude are you that decry our chosen beer
Disturbing all the after-party’s booz’d cheer?
Yelled Theseus. Do you so much envy
Our clamor that you thus complain and cry?
Which of us has dissed you, or somehow offended?
Let us know, if by bong-hit it may yet be amended,
Though emo might you be, and clothed all in black?
I don’t mean to hassle, I sweetly answered back,
Their coke I’d spooned, the pile so neatly near
That it was nigh impossible not to see and hear
Its call, and said: Lords, to whom Fortune has but given
Music mightily, your enemies to conquer here we’ve driven,
Your ballads and your bridges grieve not us,
But those things you drink are baboon pus.
Have mercy on your palates whose buds address
Your tongues in hope of a drop of gentleness,
Upon such wretched organs, oh, let fall!
For see oh sirs there is no beer in this hall
That yet is fit for a duchess or a queen;
Your gullets all laid captive to swill as we have seen–
Thanks be to Fortune and her creaking wheel
That came I here your tunes to feel
And truly, lords, your bar tab straight to burn,
And your trust through beer forthwith to earn
With an education in ale for the next fortnight
That finer tastes in your mouths might yet alight.
I, fellow singer, who stole upon your bus,
Was once front man of that band Capaneus,
Who rocked Club Thebes, and once held sway
Over maidens young in trashed array,
Our power chords echo yet in town
All boyfriends forgotten, along with gowns
During the set we thrashed upon that day
And won over Creon, who once call’d us gay!
The lord and mayor of fair Portland city,
would have you not quaff ales of vintage shitty,
And be, out of spite or ignorance’s tyranny
Captive to poor brewing’s shame and villainy,
All your tastebuds, having fallen slain,
Your cheapened empties in a heap remain,
He will not suffer them, nor yet relent,
Until better drinking you must give consent,
And will set his dogs upon you, out of spite,
Your legs to hound, and ankles, bite–
I threw corn pone, and spoke thus intemperately,
Since their scorn I had yet to hear or see,
And thought mine arrows had found their drinking heart.
This band down from the stage did start
With bottles empty, when they’d heard me speak
It seemed to me they’d grown most meek
In seeing their brews in such miserable state,
Whose charms they’d found sweet recently late.
And in their arms took they new pints tenderly,
At my insistence, their lead singer drinking, he
Did swear an oath, that as he was a rock god aright
Would drink none but true brews now, as was his right
And leave rock a rolling for Creon to swill
Having bent new booze’s purpose to his will
And thus was Creon by band Theseus served,
Getting such skunk’d ale as they rich deserved.
This sworn and one, they no more PBR pony rode,
And struck they Labatt’s from their fridge’s abode
And from apartments all, and their lady friends’ besides,
Nor would they in Athens suffer Miller to hide,
Nor drinking Busch on even so hot a day,
But onward, in Portland brews, did they make hay,
And drank deep in Hop-ia, made malt their queen,
At nitro’s fine-bubbl’d teat did wean
And there in Athens brought good brews to dwell
While I went forth—there is no more to tell.
The image of red ale, drunk in summer field,
In shining cup whose stem a maiden wields
With bracelets glittering up and down
While bearing forth the contents of no small renown,
In whose depths light like beaten gold made pint complete,
With bite like Minotaur, from the hot isle of Crete.
Thus spoke I truth, and rode off as conqueror,
Secure in leaving craft brewing in full flower,
Until I came to Atlanta and did alight
To see a show of metal, and mayhaps a fight.
But to cut it short, in telling of this thing,
Band Creon, whose fate it was in Atlanta to sing,
Fell flat most mightily, that ill-fated night
Their chords unskilled, their drummer’s blight
Killing all hope of rhythm, and rocking then
Their wall of sound like clucking of a hen
And to fair Theseus was restored again
All highest honors, whose bad beer taste had slain,
And all rights to rock made right that day.