Ah, Beer, My One Weakness. My Achille's

All Deaths Are Hateful To Miserable Mortals, But The Most Pitiable Death Of All Is To Starve.

It Never Was Our Guise To Slight The Poor, Or Aught Humane Despise.

…but There They Lay, Sprawled Across The Field, Craved Far More By The Vultures Than By Wives.

I Didn't Lie! I Just Created Fiction With My Mouth!

But Curb Thou The High Spirit In Thy Breast, For Gentle Ways Are Best, And Keep Aloof From Sharp Contentions.