WK2 : Frank(0-1) vs. Three-Planes-Aligned(0-0) [Frank wins, 6-4.]

[Frank]

"dublin"

Autumn arrived in Ireland earlier this year with gusty introduction
The chestnut trees had blushed into colors that mirrored a paint brush flushing...
Oktoberfest was in the hometown in the country side of the drunkest of drunkest
The ruggedness of the most rambunctious bunch who ever chugged from a cupeth;
Cometh to this pub tonight to prove to the world’s best drinkers they could guzzle their
hundredth without their guts budging and erupting in suds and other consumption
bucket by bucket, brought to each table by a young waiter; lugging and lugging,
The Irish Man presented a toast… mumbling something into the disruptive ruckus
Which was drowned out by the crashing thuds of clashing mugs inside the dungeons luncheon
Thugs with grudges; pounding pumpkin and belching belt buckle’s loose with overrunning glutton
The Tourist had downed 38 beers without hiccupping or adjusting buttons:
two rules being enforced by the judging public
contestants were getting their stomachs pumped and being rushed with concussions
From upper cutting punches from locals with disgusting toughness & dysfunction in their blood and
The bathroom flooded with piss you could smell, as the stalls flushed with suction
Pouring into the river, years of urine, from rusted plumbing…
The residing champion had won and won, until his liver was blood and puss and wasn’t thumping
A dull, numb, lulling, as he drank his 40th beer to a crowd’s triumphing hushing…
The Tourist, reluctant to hammer the next round, shrugged when asked for the next dozen
Buzzing; he sat on his buttocks and blacked out as the rumpus in the room reached an ear drum conundrum
The custom was for out of towners to drink until they were done, funneling, bumbling
“How many fingers am I holding up again?” fucked up, stumbling bumpkins
Husbands and lushes, sitting side by side with one another in their rut of repugnance
The local legend had downed a Victorian size tub and burped up, bubbling
But not before he shut his mouth; sending down chunks of nuggets. , .
The bus boy ran out without gloves, prepared to scrub into the dustbin,
The judges couldn’t find a spot on the floor; deducting him for bluffing on chumming
“Smudge less” the bus boy proclaimed, touching the floor, there was nothing but dust
& the two continued to drink until their stomachs sponged with a fungous
Until their hearts content, their livers quiver, their lungs corruption
Barreling through life, what a trudge, through mud;
In Ireland, we have a saying amongst the scuttered in the slums
When you die
We want you to decompose in a barrel of porter and have it served in all the pubs in Dublin