On a fine summer evening young Matthew McGee
Rode his new vintage vespa to a friend’s brewery
That had just opened up in a warehouse abandoned
By makers of red plastic lawn chairs, so and when
They left it behind ‘twas left empty for years
A hangout for hoodlums to drink pilfered beers.
But then Matthew’s friend, quite the entrepreneur
Snapped it up quickly, ‘cause he knew for sure
That microbrew buying was quite hot among those
With gauges and glasses and rings in their nose
And so he designed, yes, he fixed it right up
But of course keeping that “raw urban grit” touch.
So on opening night Matthew went with his bike
Ironically decaled with vintage I Like Ike
Stickers, as well as one touting Obama
And one for his band, The Suicide Llamas.
When he took off his helmet (‘cause safety first, right?)
All the vintage-clad hipster girls gasped in delight
To see his thick mane, decked out as a lion’s
And a big bushy beard that has other men cryin’
With jealousy, their own beards thinning and sick
Like they were comparing the size of their bootleg 70s vinyl collections.
And so Matthew strode in with a skinny jean swagger
Flaunting his follicles like a bearded Mick Jagger
All the girls in their flower crowns sighed and they swooned
Into arms of thin smokers with ironic cartoons
Printed on t-shirts bought for $2.99
From hidden thrift shops off of I-95.
And so he came in and he ordered a brew
Made with organic hops, and french ginger too.
And then his friend said with a mustachioed smile,
“Come check out the back brewing room for a while.”
And so Matthew proceeded, a spring in his stride
And soon was succeeded by two girls who tried
To catch his glance, flipping their thickly dyed hair
But no bit of flirting could counter his flair,
That beautiful peacock, that leather-clad lion
His pointed shoes shinin’, his beard all a- flyin’
And so he went into that lone brewing room
A room that, alas, would soon be his tomb.
For although he had girls falling to histrionics,
Although his t-shirt was so very ironic
Even the noblest must once meet their doom,
And Matthew’s would come in that brewery room.
For that day was as hot as the devil on fire
And some dumb employee, a terrible liar
Had broken the A/C but blamed it instead
On a rat that inside some air duct was dead.
The back room felt as though hell’d boiled over
With huge vats fermenting those brews under cover
The temperatures shot over a hundred degrees
Of steamy hot beer-air, no hint of a breeze
And into that sauna of booze fermentation
Our noble hero strode without hesitation
Like Daniel into that old lion’s den,
He entered with high-brimming bravery, then
He admired the vats of tall stainless steel
But when the door closed, he began then to feel
A strange sort of heat all over his face,
So cloaked and protected by his hairy grace
As sweat went to pool at the back of his neck
And slowly the air seemed to get double thick
Like boiled molasses that drenched his whole person
And his friend in his innocence thought that for certain
Matthew would take off his hip leather shroud
But he was so glorious, and just far too proud
And as he got hotter, his brain started fryin’
Thanks to that mane, of that most regal lion
And then with a gasp, the barest hint of a shout
He tumbled and fell to the floor, all passed out.
The girls shrieked in horror, the friend stood in a trance
Before yelling to summon a fast ambulance.
But alas! ‘twas too late for our well-bearded hero--
He was as dead as a victim of Robert De Niro.
So, what must we learn from this sad tale, so grave?
Perhaps all the hipsters should learn how to shave.