Working the late shift, Friday night,
This was back in the Salad Days, 1980's
Room-mate Myk, was taking a hike,
Asked if there was something I would like,
At the Liquor Store, and just what type,
I said 'any kind, I ain't gonna gripe'
If it's your treat, it cant be bad,
Just leave it in the Fridge back at the pad,
I trust you buddy, it'll be good,
But instead of that I should,
Have said, 'Guiness, Pabst or even Bud',
'My pal', I thought, 'was not a dud',
Alas at the Pad, to my chagrin,
In the ice-box was, when I looked in,
A grisly sight to leave me bereft,
He bought me a six-pack of the ol' 'Green Death'.
Ballantine Ale, jaundiced and pale,
Unpleasant, corpulent and stale,
Nauseating bitter tonic,
Pungeant, vile and vitriolic,
Alac to think I could have drunk,
Another ale that hadn't stunk,
A Michelob, I could have had,
Or Miller High Life, like my Dad,
But because I was not specific,
I suffered consequence horrific,
Instead of amber stout so fine,
I had to choke down Ballantine.
So listen up, you young guns,
And don't repeat what I had done,
When your pal is buying beer,
Make your preferences clear,
As for me, I learned a lesson,
And never again, I am guessin',
Even if there's no Beer left,
I'll pass up on the 'Old Green Death'.
