Kellerbier tastes like the nuts of a dead rat that have been dipped in crude oil and puke, then dragged through a den of skunks before being microwaved in a covered bowl with a half cup of diarrhea and a slice of lemon.

This poem, on the other hand, tastes like a winner.

"Now I am dead a dancing shade, the only freedom man has made". I don't know what it is about the way you bring poems to a close, but it is usually those last five or so lines that make me want to cry or scream or pray. You really do have to fight through life. And what's the reward? Going to effing sleep. That's a good reason to not deny yourself any little pleasure while you're alive. Drink more beer! (Kellerbier of Hummel, to be precise.)

Fighting through life. Sounds like a way to live. At least you won't sit there uselessly as time ticks by and your cells shut down one at a time.

What the freaking freak is up with your summaries, dewd?! Your mind is truly diseases and should be given a rather stiff shot of penecillin STAT to combat the spread. This says nothing of the poem itself, you weirdo. I love it...no doubt about that...but through my love I can recognize how deeply creepy you are.