You are gone, my brew,
along with whistling at waitresses
by dungareed men
in their favorite bar.
Gone with the others--
Falstaff, Pete's Wicked Ale,
Brown Derby, Red, White and Blue,
to name a few.
But you were my favorite,
braced me through teen years.
I snuck you behind the barn,
when you were not allowed.
As the jingle went:
The premium beer,
at a popular price,
enjoy the best!
I drank you with delight
before you failed me
one hot Florida night,
on that Ft. Lauderdale beach.
Drunk as skunks
and broke as punks,
we staggered into
the store's garish lights.
But not blinded enough,
able to count our change,
gather the $1.30
to buy you Mabel.
Hug your sweaty sides,
as we began to quaff
by the rusty garbage can
on that starlit beach.
Blech! I will never forget.
You tasted like gas.
I retched and coughed
Threw the six pack into the can.
Now older, richer and wiser,
I sip my fancy brews,
remember you as the girl
I left behind so long ago.
Oh, Mabel, such a different time,
an America now gone,
cheap beer the boon and doggle
of all those thirsty men.
Originally published in Scud Magazine