Pewter Pot

 

With a plastic beaker, and a highball glass,

in aqua vita est, in vino veritas,

as when we imbibe, we can see,

the symbols, that make up our beliefs,

 

creation is known, with milk bottle nib,

then joy is learned, by soda can kid,

then when the times, become a stress,

stronger tastes come, to make you rest,

 

perhaps, picture yourself a Viking,

where the flyting cup, can make you sing,

or sip with those, in the upper circle,

with a flute, holding famed French gargle,

 

or think yourself, an elected suit,

where the stench of coffee, is the root,

and if you’re a teacher, I know your stance,

for little terrors, mean you have Grants,

 

of course, the e-gamer, who has played,

builds a bottle pyramid with Gatorade,

and far away, where the heat is rife,

no need for glass, a municipal pipe,

 

but what do I do? I hear you ask,

well sometimes, my friend is the cask,

I pretend to be Falstaff, of which I’m not,

when filling up my pewter pot.