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.