Let other poets raise a ruckus

About vines, and wines, and drunken Bacchus,

And fine brews' names and stories to wreck us,

Still, great is our beverage.

I sing of the juice Loko Beers can make us,

In can or solo cup to lug.

Oh you, my Muse! Good old Four Loko drink!

Whether in fridges, full, you sink

Or, richly green, ream o'er the brink,

In glorious foam

Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing your name!

Let parties lively and bleachers adorn,

And, how you shake each college dorm,

Loko Beer, at evening or morn,

Perfume the plain:

Give to me, John Barleycorn,

Your king of energy!

On you, the DJ remains upright,

In double swigs, through peopled nights,

Or tumbling in the barroom, cheap,

You provide the drunkard hearty sleep,

But when you pour your strong heart's blood

There you will always be of need.

You clear the head of unspoken jeers

You cheer the heart of drooping Care;

You string the nerves of labor sour;

At it's weary toil;

You even brighten dark Despair

With gloomy smile.

You are the life of public haunts;

But say, what were our songs and rants?

Even rebel meetings of those MAGA boys

By you inspired,

When, gaping, they besieged the Rotunda

Were doubly fired.

Fortune! if you'll but give me still,

A plastic cup, a beercan, a Four Loko Beer

And in spirit of rhyme to rave at will,

Take all the rest,

And deal it about as your blind skill

Directs you best.