Slane

The beer will be warm when we get there. We won't care. We'll guzzle them anyway. (In fact, one explodes and destroys some of us.) Only one of us complains that we're missing the opening act drinking. Meanwhile the stewards try to move us along. Rain soaks us through, washing away the earlier beer spillage. But we're not there yet. No, we're still on the bus, pulled over for a piss break. The driver looks for toll change. We argue over what'll get played. The cans rolling around in the bag at my feet are fizzing up. So am I.