three pints

Never one to shy
      away from the drink,
I welcome the
      quench that the pint provides-
smooth, creamy
elixir for generations of
broken hearted men
tired of hoe and spade.
I do not sit on a stool
set in a pastoral past,
nor do I wear worn dungarees,
but my toil in stocking and heel
is still earth rich-
my nose to the ground
from moving too quickly
across a  modern manscape.
Three pints fill
my belly just right-
it does not stretch out
against a leather constraint.
Built with layers
of feminine fortitude
I can deflect their fear that
I may last longer
with my belly up to the bar.

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