Beer Pong Blitz

Cups clatter, splatter, it’s ON—
the ball bounces, wild, a hit or miss.
Crowd roars louder than a stadium cheer,
beer sloshes over rims like a sloppy kiss.
“Chug it, chug it!” chants explode,
someone’s yelling, someone’s leaned—
one cup down, eight more to go,
this table’s battleground supreme.

The lights are low, a disco glow,
music pumping, bassline jump—
ping-pong ball like a drunken comet,
over cups and hands, a careening thump.
Eyes on the shot like it’s fate itself,
tilting, aiming, on one leg,
as if this throw will write their story,
the pong gods bless, the pong gods beg.

A toss, a miss, a wild rebound,
the enemy team jeers, “Airball! Weak!”
But then—it lands! A lucky bounce,
the crowd erupts, ecstatic freak.
Arms up high, a sloppy cheer,
like they’ve scored in some Olympic feat,
they drink, they stumble, spill the rest,
no victory’s ever this bitter-sweet.

Someone’s snapping blurry photos,
flash blinding every tilted gaze.
Victory cheers and slurred confessions,
“Best game ever! Pong craze!”
The night’s a blur of pong and song,
as cups go down like falling stars—
a table stained, the game long gone,
yet legends live in these plastic wars.