the mightiest pen

I've always been much more of a "lets go for coffee" sort of person rather than one who goes for pints, and having never got what the hype was it seemed a much more expensive and much less pleasant way to spend a few hours. Perhaps it's because I didn't used to like beer and it was difficult to know what to drink when you had to sip it so slowly without reaching into your handbag to top it up (so classy, I know). But now I like German white beer so that part's okay. And I love pubs during the day for reading and doing a spot of people watching, sitting by myself with a cup of coffee, a book and a sketchpad, especially somewhere cosy and old-manny with lots of nooks and crannys like Neachtains. But now I like sitting there with other people too and just as much as in a cafe somewhere. So when the girls asked did I want to come for a drink I decided why the hell not.
However, instead of pints we all had hot whiskeys as the cold and the rain turned us that way inclined, but the barman didn't seem to appreciate the magnitude of work involved in filling our order. Sipping on our warming goodness (before moving on to the inevitable pints) we composed a circular poem - write a line and pass it on.
Entitled either "Pulsating Loins" or alternatively "What have we got to get up for", you can read and decide:

A steely stare, eyes of steel,
Shot me with a gun (it wasn't real)
I wish it was, I would have laughed,
But instead my will was halved.

But then I began to know him more,
His finest cheap beer he did for me pour.
He gave us each a discount card,
As he could tell our lives were hard.

He mistook Ruth for a student young,
She accepted the lie and swallowed her tongue.
Falling to the floor she hit her head,
'Alas!' he cried, 'I fear she's dead!'

Ruth awoke saying 'Why do you speak like Albus Dumbledore?'
He replied 'Oh this is awkward, I'll talk like this no more'
Can't write no more, my thoughts are sparse,
This has descended into farce.

Farce or no, we must go on,
Or Ruth will swallow a baby (my rhyming is gone)...
Gone with the wind like the day to the night,
Like our youth and our looks, we've lost the fight.

Well I'm not giving up you bunch of quitters,
I am the hurl I will beat you like sliotars.
We've forgotten the bar man, it got so wild,
Screw you Zara I still look like a child.

We've lost track of the point from which we did start,
So like the children we are... I'll end with a FART