#3 - Genius Plan for Poem

In which I have a drink between
each stanza. Twelve beers, twelve
stanzas, HEY-O, that pale ale looks
good; you—sweating rings on my
parchment, smearing my terza rima
with that Big-Hops West Coast per-
spiration. On #8 I’ll play the cat like
an accordion, compress & expand
the tabby skeleton. Enjambment
won’t hurt if you scratch behind
the ears. Better summon the yeast
‘cause at #11, the moving parts
come undone: better to get a line
than a moan, better to get an image
than a tone.