Of brewskis and legs, a gentleman knows
high-quality is deserved,
awarded by his God in the natural way,
unprotested by champion’s guilt.
On towering limbs, above kookier fruits,
as high as he’s able to climb-
the bounty to pick, as well he should reach,
to befit his illustrious palate-
a pair, they two clean-cut idols who meet,
he on ladder, inherited, relies,
she glancing downward from bough where she grew
to espy a hand worth suicide.
But “Oh! ’tis not fair,” we exclaim from below,
“that the Lord should shine favor on them
and gift us with naught but a life further down,
to judge and be judged for our minds!”