Perched on the barstool
on crossed feet to look taller
he downed another pint
smacked down the mug

When he wanted to 
if push came to shove
if the shit hit the fan
he could really mix it up

A low centre of gravity
fists as fat as hams
and an acumen buoyed 
on barley and hops

He’d left the crown
on the bookshelf…
tonight was about drinking
and whatever else came his way

From Sonofabitch Poems, 2011