Nom de Bier – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo by William Shakespeare

This is entry #1 in the series “Nom de Bier” – good beer reviewed by famous authors (as emulated by me). I do not claim to speak for these authors, nor am I an expert scholar in their particular style, so please feel free to correct/admonish as you see fit.

Beer Review – Samuel Smith Yorkshire Stingo (barrel aged)
Style: English Strong Ale
ABV: 8.0%
IBU: 30-35

By: William Shakespeare

Sonnet CLV

From bottom where Eros did spring his Sting,
Through much bubbly affair rose sweet head, O;
But focus nay on bubbles should the tale sing,
Instead in oaken planks dark fruits do grow.
A Smith named Sam, a hero born into
Malten cavalcades proceeding to tun;
Man and Nature together set to brew,
And what yeast embark may ne’er be undone.
An odd thing though this, partly tongues note sour –
By work of raisins and spry, teeming wood –
It dances reliquary, somber, dour;
As if mourning a time long passed, lost good.
A tribute, nay, an homage aged old,
Captured in glass, for you to pour, to hold.

Sonnet CLVI

That god not settled with simple ale bliss
Sought more beyond what tradition limits,
As sailors once set eyes on ambergris,
So too did Smith on the cooper’s habit.
And O! How the amber flowed from slick steel,
Down and round bent staves to beer bellies bound,
And here it stayed, a year, flavor made real:
The hold of a ship, full of beer, run ‘ground.
That year much did swirl for yeast finds sleep rare,
And what once was beer in tree’s brace did find
Notes, smells unfettered now but palate fair,
And bitter music played in time with rind.
If one sought brown or pale or stout sweet woe
For neither, nor, and none, this strong ale show.

Sonnet CLVII

Elements conjured forth through Water pure
A tincture; Fire’s bane and Earth’s lament.
On Air life gulped sweet life shy of demure,
And found in liquid our Spirit’s repent.
Ask one now, she, ‘should imbibe or abstain?’
‘All depends’ answer they, ‘what dost thou seek?’
From life from this place, melodic refrain?
Or days left unfulfilled, the same, so weak?
If the latter, fly now, Smith wants you not;
Much rather he’d have a soul gilded bold.
So into your life cast Gambler’s lot
A chance you should take, on true Yorkshire gold.
But also weigh Eros, mission love born,
And weigh too, ones headache come morrow, come morn.

Grammarian’s note: I went with sonnets over a play for brevity’s sake, and because I prefer rhymed iambic pentameter to blank verse. I started with CLV (155) as Shakespeare’s final sonnet was CLIV (154). The structure for a sonnet is 12 rhyming quatrains (ABAB CDCD EFEF) with a single rhyming (GG) couplet as the closing. For more information, check out the basics of his style: http://www.shakespeare-online.com/faq/writingstyle.html

‘Twas the Night before Beermas

‘Twas the night before Beermas, and all through the house
Not a microbe was stirring, not even in kraus;
The bottles were lined in the kitchen with care,
In hopes that St. Augustine would soon be there;
The beards and the babes all snug in their beds;
While visions of hop bombs danced in their heads;
And mamma with her brown, and I with my brett,
Had just settled our brains for a night of regret,
When out of the stainless there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bar stool to see what was the matter.

Away to the brewhouse I made a mad dash,
Turned open the bright tank and inspected the mash;
The moon on the breast of the flocculated yeast,
Gave a yellowish glow to say but the least,
When what to my glazed eyes did appear,
But a miniature keg-sleigh all laden with beer,
With a little old brewer so making a fuss,
I knew in a moment must be Fermentus.
More rapid than taplines his libations they came,
And he sipped, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Doppel! now, Bock! now Porter and Amber!
On, Stout! on, Pale! on, Saison and Pilsner!
To the top of the silo! And try not to fall!
Now drink away! drink away! drink away all!”

As labels that on the wild bottling line fly,
When they meet with their glue must inevitably dry;
So up from the kegs the beers they did glug
With a cask full of dry hops, and too many a mug,
And then, in a twinkling, I heard with a crash
The clanking and clinking of bottles of glass
As I buzzed in my head, and was turning around,
Down the grain shoot came Fermentus with a bound.
He was dressed all in plaid, like a relic of grunge
And plopped on the floor like a carboy-free bunge,
A sixer of beers tucked under his arm,
And he looked like a Hill, fresh from his farm.

His malts—how they roasted! his adjuncts; all cherry!
His hops were like pine cones, all nasal and airy!
His droll little smile meant he knew best,
And the beard on his chin was as unkempt as a nest;
The old hydrometer he held tight in his teeth,
And the steam, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a red face and a sway in his step
Either from the liquid itself or the amount he did schlep
He was clever and diligent, a right jolly sud slinger,
And I laughed when I saw him, that liquid cheer bringer.

A wink of his eye and a twist of a cap
Soon gave me to know I would like this old chap,
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the shakers; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger across ruddy lips,
And giving a nod, took but only a sip;
He sprang to his keg-sleigh, to his team gave a hollar,
And away they all flew like wind behind a dollar.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he swerved out of sight—
“Happy Beermas to all, and to all a good night!”

(My apologies for the subcultural bastardization. The original poem by Clement Clarke Moore can be found here)

The Session 84 – Round-Up (Part 1)

(My round-up will be in two parts, due to length)

Listening to Garrett Oliver talk about many beer bloggers and journalists “missing the story behind beer” this weekend at the University of Kentuck Craft Writing Symposium makes me especially glad that I got such a great (and varied!) turn out for my turn hosting The Session. I was worried that the topic might be a little too avant garde, a little too Dogfish and not enough Sierra Nevada. I was worried it might annoy some people, or turn them off with it’s open endedness and unabashed rule breaking. But I got 31* responses ranging from silent movies to poems to stream of conciousness word art, and each and every post tickled the creative corners of my brain with feathery delight.

*(If I missed anyone, it was not intentional, I just didn’t see your link on Twitter or in the comments of the announcement. If you don’t see your self here, send me a link and I’ll add you. You may also be in part 2, coming tomorrow.)

With this Session, I wasn’t just trying to be silly. My goal was to get you thinking in a different way, a perpendicular way, perhaps even in a way that opened the door to something beyond the contents of the glass. Beer seems magical when you sink down into the scientific beauty of fermentation, but again, to paraphrase Mr. Oliver – “Beer isn’t chemicals; beer is people.” And people are stories. And poems. And films and songs and photos. The beer is only the surface of an ocean of lives lived in, with, on, around, and because of brewing.

I’ll start with those who used my second favorite medium next to words: photographs. Stan Hieronymus – partly responsible for starting this whole Session thing – presented 5 pictures, not necessarily beer related, with a beer name and a brief caption. The simplicity of his post let my brain wander and create stories for each, sort of sensory deperevation through images, I suppose. My favorite was the picture of the old, worn stone stairs. I imagined some drunk monk slipping down these after hitting the trippel a bit too hard.

Bryan D. Roth also chose the path most-photoed, getting cheeky (possibly even illegal in some states) with his “reviews.” It’s good to know I’m not the only one whose cat harasses them when they’re trying to peacefully sleep in the bathtub after some BCBS. Also, good to know Bryan has cornered the market on beer, potato chip, and pajama pairings.

John Abernathy wasn’t far behind with his excellent snowy #beertography of 10 Barrel Brewing’s “Wino” (that, as an aside, I think he should enter into an @beertography contest on Twitter) or as it’s now known, for anyone looking for it, “16 Barrels.”

Following closely were the moving photos, mesmerizing machinations that seemed as if thousands and thousands of still images had somehow been spliced together by some modern sorcery. David Bascombe’s 20’s era silent movie (slash mime) throw-back of him tasting a lambic had me laughing out loud in my cubicle, especially with that dastardly grin at the end (I take it he loves lambic). Boak and Bailey (Jessica and Ray, respectively) cobbled together a montage that felt like a perfect nod to art-deco, fruit, and keyboard synth music/drum machines. Oh, and yummy beer. I take it they quite liked Thornbridge Chiron (It’s a party!), and it was particularly citrusy. I will admit I was slightly disappointed they didn’t opt for the creative flower arrangement beer review. Maybe next time.

Deep down, I hoped one of our musically inclined brethren would cover a song for us, but several people went the audio route, either way. Looke of Likey Moose (yes, I read your about page) compiled an eclectic beery playlist (to review Potton Brewery’s Shambles) that opened with one of my favorite songs of all time: Beer by Reel Big Fish. The rest of the list was pretty stellar too. I mean it featured The Cure and Elbow, so it was clearly very awesome.

Simon Tucker did something I really hoped someone would, and reviewed a not-beer in the style of a beer. His beer-like review of The Fall’s album “Grotesque (After The Gramme)” was equally hilarious and poignant. Being an American neo-punk kid (Op Ivy and Tiger Army all day), I went and listened to this whole album, and I think Simon’s review of it was spot on (and it sounds like he has great headphones that really make the kazoo shine).

I had intentionally opened this Session up to all writers, hoping to coax a few non-beer people into our weird world, and apparently it worked! Cameron D. Garriepy penned a vivid piece of flash fiction that captured how intimate sharing a pint can be. Her story definitely made me want to get my hands on a bottle of Spinnaker from Rising Tide (and read more of her work).

Following suite, in less fictional ways, were our poets. Dan at Community Beer Works wove an impressive A-B-A scheme short poem that had me wondering where and why they were alone that night. I guess there’s no reason to keep up the fight. Thomas Cizauskas gave us a operatic ode (but he didn’t sing it), confessing his true love for cask ale, ah, sweet mystery of life it be. To round out the poets, I’ll include Sean Inman’s complex and fascinating stream of consciousness (not really poetry, but poetic none the less) that was either channeling my madness, his, or some combination thereof. Lance agonizing gashes under necktie in time as sentenced, indeed, my friend (since writing this, Sean commented, and I figured out his nonsense wasn’t nonsense at all, it was a brilliant first-letter = blog post concoction. Well played sir, well played).

In the only attempt at the literally dramatic, Glen Humphries gave us a short scene from a play that could have been ripped from the daily stage-direction of any beer geek’s life. Especially that part about conversations where hops are never brought up. Those still exist?

And now for what I can only label “miscellaneous;” those brilliant smatters of beer-fueled wisdom and tap-tuned wanderlust that I can only lump together because of their eccentricity. Fellow NAGBW winner Alan McCormick had me going for a bit as he blatantly insulted me for all the internet to see, until I realized his non-review was a delicate, clever jab at Stone, and their well-known (and reviled?) Arrogant Bastard. Fellow DC denizen Jacob Berg waxed scientific about Lactobacillus, entertaining and educating us about Westbrook’s Gose and yeast in one fell, sour swoop.

Alan McLeod, author of much internet-renown, was either actually confused, or feigned confused by the topic, and gave us a short blurb from his book “The Unbearable Nonsense of Craft Beer” that in a meta-sort of way fulfilled the requirements of this Session. It’s deceptively on-point, and I thank him for his humor. Dave Ellis offered a two-pronged post, the prior half about his dislike for generic reviews (which in general, I share), and the latter half a theoretical situation of drinking Mornington Peninsula Imperial Stout on the side of a massive mountain as a way to capture the awe-inspiring flavor (all in the voice of John O’Hurley).

Liam at Drunken Speculation went all graeca antiqua on us, and while Aristophanes is my classical jam, his apt chosen passage about the taming of Bucephalus from Plutarch’s Life of Alexander was surprisingly relevant to Dogfish Head 90 minute. If you studied the classics. And have no problem connecting modern beer to ancient texts. Can we expect a drunken translation of Parallel Lives from Liam in the future?

Pivní Filosof got all deep and recursive on me, delving into the paradoxes of fate, and the delicious dual-identity crisis that is Black IPA. Without knowing, I think we tapped into each other’s Jungian collective unconscious, as his entry is thematically, deliciously, tangential to my own.

Paul Crickard’s interpretation of the topic was among my favorite, and his romantic, thoughtful nod to either his partner or his long time favorite, or both, hid deliciously behind the head of literary ambiguity. Jeremy Short’s heartfelt defense of Coors Extra Gold really cut through a lot of the craft beer bravado, and I think can be introduced nicely with the choice quote, “Beer is a social drink and Extra Gold comes in 30 packs.”

Rounding out the miscellaneous post was #beerchat friend Tom Bedell, who quite literally tried to drink the new flavor (abomination?) from Jelly Belly. His pictures went very much appreciated, and that last one of Tom slugging down a “glass” of Jelly Bean Beer made this ole’ softie smirk. I too long for the IPA, or perhaps hop flavored Jelly Belly.

Bravo to one and all. You exceeded whatever random expectations I had, by a long, long shot.

More to come tomorrow, with more excellent writing, in what I can only call “beer memoir!”

“Brewing is hard. Writing is really, really, really hard.” -Garrett Oliver, Brewmaster at Brooklyn Brewery

A Bubble of Collective Beer Nouns

If verbs are the workhorses of the grammatical world, nouns are the plows being pulled through all that fertile syntactic dirt. Nouns give us solid descriptors of people and places beyond “she” and “there”, rocky outcroppings for our minds to grab a hold of and say “hey, I know that thing!”

Even cooler than singular nouns are collective nouns; containers that hold the place for a bunch of smaller nouns, like a corny keg cradling several dozen beers. Some are so simple you don’t even recognize them: a group of people. Some are so exotic you can’t help but wonder what sinister allusion inspired its original use: a murder of crows.

There are thousands of other collective nouns bouncing around our eccentric language, most of them related to animals: a pride of lions, a school of fish, a parliament of owls, an ostentation of peacocks. The animal naming thing comes from the ~500 year old game of venery (related to “the hunt”, not human sexuality, perv), in which hunters would challenge each other to come up with the best word to capture the spirit of the animals they were hunting. T.H. White had Merlin playing the game with Arthur as part of his lessons in The Once and Future King. James Lipton’s 1968 book, An Exaltation of Larks, expanded upon the game and moved it beyond animals, and the version re-released in 1993 included lovely twists of phrase like a shrivel of critics and a blur of Impressionists.

I’d like to take it a step further. The craft beer culture is full of so many wonderful nouns – hops and malts and yeasts and kettles – but lacks the poetic collective nouns to do a lot of these beautiful people, places, and things linguistic justice. Sure, people reference our beloved beer accouterments with general collectives, but a bunch of hops is hardly elegant enough to properly represent our favorite Cannabaceae.

Here are my first 10 official additions to the world of collective beer nouns. The fun of the game is to debate and offer alternative collective nouns that better describe the singular noun, so all suggestions, rejections, and additions very welcome!

1. A tumble of pint glasses
2. An aroma of hops
3. A backbone of malts
4. A shine of brew kettles
5. A cacophony of brew pubs
6. A flocculation of yeasts
7. An infection of off-flavors
8. An oasis of kegs
9. A steep of mashtuns
10. A crown of bottle caps

If you had to add one, what would it be?

A helix of hop vines.

Craft and Draft: Sheet Music

There are only two universal truths in life: cookies and music.

Can you think of someone who doesn’t like cookies? Someone who openly acknowledges that in the nearly infinite variety of flat, round, sugary treats available they don’t like a single type? They can dismiss, with a condescending wave of the hand, chocolate chip, oatmeal raisin, white chocolate macadamia, shortbread, or cranberry almond? I submit that even if a person claims to not like cookies, they just haven’t met the right cookie yet.

The same principle can be applied to music. I’ve met a whole random smattering of people in my time on this floating rock, and not one of them disliked music. Sure, some people don’t like certain kinds of music, and some people only like music when they are in certain moods or in certain places or with certain people. For some, music is rich 72% cocoa dark chocolate, only to be savored on the most hallowed occasions. But, when all the cards are down, the dices thrown, and the cliches overused, every human on this planet has some connection to and appreciation for music.

It’s not just because music is fun or empowering or energizing. It’s because music is woven into the textiles of our existence. The piping patterns of song birds that wake you up on a sunny spring morning, the repetitive roar and cascading Doppler shift of passing rush hour traffic, the unrelenting pulse of your heart pushing blood through your veins with every pump. Music is the tangible manifestation of the very reverberations of the universe, the vibrations and rumblings and bouncing atoms that give us physics and math and beauty through art.

Everything has a level of musicality to it, including your writing. It can be labeled with things like “cadence” and “meter” and “flow” but it really amounts to a lyrical quality, a quality that animates your writing and makes it move across the page like an inken inchworm. If you want your writing to be really effective, it needs to come alive in the reader’s eyes and ears and mind.

Just like music, writing needs some structure to be pleasing to the ear. How can you turn your page of prose into a sheet of symphony?

I’m glad you asked.

1. Listen to music (with lyrics)

This seems so obvious that it’s kind of insulting I’d suggest it. But I’m not suggesting you just throw on some trendy-ass noise-canceling headphones and casually listen while you type. Like you’d closely read a piece of literature to see how the writer crafted his tale, listen to the music with an attentive ear. Listen for the chord changes (you’ll ear little shifts in notes at specific, timed intervals), listen when the singer transitions from verse to chorus. Listen how the notes change to create harmony and how the lyrics are used to build up to an important moment in the song, like the breakdown or the bridge.

Songwriting is poetry set to music, and is a great example of writing trimmed down to its most lyrical elements. By analyzing the music you listen to, you’ll start to absorb good timing, great meter, and amazing transitions from one section to the next.

2. Vary your sentences

There is a lot of grammar behind sentence variation (I’ve bored you guys with enough of that recently), but it has a more practical purpose than just syntactic complexity. Varying your sentence length – from quick and dirty short sentences to drawn-out and obtuse long sentences – adds fluidity and organicness to your writing. It keeps the reader moving, guessing what form you’ll use next, and makes reading your writing entertaining and engaging.

Variation can encompass length, style, diction, and doesn’t necessarily mean you have to write completely different sentences all the time. The beginning of Beethoven’s 5th Symphony (arguably one of the most iconic pieces of classical music ever) repeats the same 4-note pattern, over and over again. And yet it works and we love it and it sticks in our memory because it’s different variation on the same theme. Chord changes within songs are related to each other, but are variations within the key of the song.

Apply the same to your words and sentences and paragraphs. Variation is music is titillating writing.

3. Build patterns

Beethoven used patterns to establish theme and expected rhythm, but do you know who else did (and does)?

Birds. Whales. Crickets. The ocean. Your heart. Your lungs.

Grammar defines the patterns we expect in language: subject, verb, direct object. Music defines the patterns we expect in song: verse, chorus, verse. Our brains are built to recognize and appreciate patterns. It’s what separates us from computers. Well, that and skin and organs and hair and stuff.

As you’re writing, notice the patterns you’re creating. Are you opening with short sentences followed by longer ones? Are you using generalizations then following up with specific examples or anecdotes? Are you always concluding or transitioning with some sort of fragment or quick tie-up? Are you using a lot of rhetorical questions?

Patterns may not be as obvious and repetitive as an ABAB rhyme structure. Sometimes they’re more subtle, and manifest in parallel grammatical structures or similar messages or repetitive words. But it’s important to recognize that a reader expects some sort of pattern to your writing, a rhythm or marker that lets them know where they are and where they are going.

When you explicitly use certain patterns in your writing for emphasis and effect, you start to really bring your writing voice to the front of the page.

4. Have a conversation

When a band plays, it’s not just 5 or so instruments playing their individual parts, hoping it all syncs up and sounds pleasant or right. It’s the guitar talking to the keyboard, the keyboard flirting with the drums, the drums making fun of bass. The music of each part is working together in real time – almost as if they’re having a conversation – to create a complete dialogue within a song.

When you write, imagine that you’re orating the story. Imagine that your average reader is right in front of you, staring at your expectantly, and you have to clearly enunciate each sentence, adding the proper intonation and weight to the appropriate sections. Write as if you want them to “ooh” and “ahh” when you reach the end of each paragraph because it makes their ears all giddy and blissful. Like, y’know, music.

This is not to say that you should literally write like you speak. That would be a disaster of “ums” and “likes” and “yea, so.” Good writing captures the flow and elegance of practiced speech and cuts out all of filler crap that we use when chatting about March Madness brackets with our coworkers. Your writing should read like it is being spoken, contain all the delectable nuance of a practiced speech and a Broadway play. It should flourish when read out loud, so that it is flourishes within your reader’s mind.

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” -Nietzsche

Ode to a Favorite Cat

Yesterday we lost a family member. His name was Boddington (named after the beer, imagine that in my family). He was one of the greatest cats I have ever known.

This is for my mother, his mother, the greatest mom and cat-mom to ever grace this planet with her kindness. Her devotion to her cats is something of legend. Her love of life is unrivaled. She is a living model of compassion and selflessness.

Ode to a Favorite Cat 

Although I will not be around to wake you with meows,
Do not mourn my passing, for my life was sweet.
I had years and years of love and purrs,
A life that cats in the street dream endlessly of.

I have gone to a place where the weather is clear,
Rain never rustles my shiny coat;
I’ve gone to a place where the bowl is never empty,
And I never get fat.

The birds give perfect sport, the mice are clumsy and plentiful,
The grass I eat is soft, never makes me sick;
The rays of sun passing through the windows always make a perfect spot for me to bask,
And I can roll on my back without fear.

I will miss you as you miss me,
But know that I am with my brothers, Tom, J.R.;
In this place I am not sick, but in the prime of my life,
I am strong and fast and silly as a cat should be.

While my physical strength has left me,
I remain powerful in your heart;
As long as you remember my playful biting and relentless cries,
I will live forever.

Although I will not be around to sleep on your feet,
Do not mourn my passing, for my life was sweet.
You gave me something that makes life worth living,
Love, companionship, and an embrace so warm it can never fade.

We love you Boddington. You will be missed more than you know.

(Inspiration found here)

Rest well my noisy friend, our hearts are bigger and sweeter for having known you.

Review: Harpoon IPA

I had a hard time deciding how to review what is arguably my favorite beer. I decided to merge it with what is arguably my favorite literary work.

Seems appropriate.

The IPAven

Once upon a midday cheery, while I pondered drunk and beery,
Over many a quaint and curious glass that I’d forgotten to pour,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a  tapping,
As of someone gentle rapping, rapping on the outside door,
Tis some visitor, I muttered, tis one of my friends rapping at the home’s front door,
Only this, and nothing more.

Ah distinctly I remember, it was on the brightest Easter,
And each separate dying beer can wrought its shell upon my floor,
Eagerly I fought the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my brews surcease of  sorrow – sorrow for the lonely pour,
For this rare and radiant pale ale that the angels forgot to pour,
Nameless here, for ever more.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple label,
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic flavors that I’d never tasted before;
So that now, to still the beating of my drunken mind, I stood repeating,
Tis some housemate entreating entrance at the home’s front door,
Some drunk friend  entreating entrance at the home’s front door,
This it is, and nothing more.

Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
Bro, said I, or buddy, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, drunken when you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the home’s front door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you – here I opened wide the door,
Deep Creek there, and nothing more.

Far across that lake peering, long I stood there, wondering, leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no sober man ever dared to dream before,
But the silence was unbroken, and the waters gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “please pour”,
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “please pour!”
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my gas within me burping,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely, said I, surely that is something in my brain come loose;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my stomach be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
Tis DTs and nothing more!

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a hizz and bubble,
In there dripped a stately pale ale of the saintly liquor store.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, into pint glass he did pour,
Settle on the oaken table, in this pint glass himself he poured –
Settled, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this yellowy beer beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the bitter and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
Though they head be short and sparing, thou, I said, art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and tasty haven from the darkened near lake shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on Boston’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Much I marveled this ungainly brew to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was cursed with seeing no beers in his fridge with which to pour,
Brew or yeast outside of glassware, somehow never being poured,
With such a name as, “Never pour.”

But the pale ale sitting lonely on the placid oak, spoke only,
Those two words, as if his soul with hops did store,
Nothing further then he uttered – not a bubble then he sputtered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have drank before,”
On the morrow he will leave me, empty glass reflecting hopes as before,
Then the beer said, “Never pour.”

Startled at my buzz so broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy brewmaster whom merciful disaster,
Swallowed fast and swallowed faster till his kegs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope that metal keg bore,
Of, “Never-never pour.”

But the pale ale still beguiling my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned recliner in the front of beer and table and door,
The, upon the pleather sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous beer of corner store,
What this hopped, flavored, tasty, and masterful beer of the corner store,
Meant in croaking, “Never pour.”

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sober syllable expressing,
To the brew who’s fiery eyes now burned into my brain’s dull core,
This and more I sat divining, with my head from suds reclining,
On the cushion’s pleasing pleather lining that the IKEA lamp gloated o’er,
But whose pleasing pleather lining that the IKEA lamp gloated o’er,
She shall sip, ah, but never pour!

Then me though the liquid grew denser, flavored from unseen censur,
Dipped by Seraphim whose foot-falls trickled on the heady floor,
Wretch! I cried, they God hath lent thee – by these bottles he has sent thee,
Respite – respite and hydration from they memories of the beer I forgot to pour,
Quaff, oh quaff this kind Gatorade, and forget this misplaced pour,
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Prophet! Said I, thing of evil!  – prophet still if beer or devil!
Whether ferment sent or whether fermentation toss thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this lake shore land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore!
Is there – is there beer in Gilead? Tell me, tell me! I implore.
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Prophet! Said I, thing of evil!  – prophet still if beer or devil!
By that lake that swells beside us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distance Boston,
It shall clasp a sainted ale of who I never got to pour –
Clasp a rare and flavorful ale, who they never let me pour?
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

Be those words our sign of parting, beer or fiend! I shrieked upstarting –
Get thee back into the kettle, back to that fated liquor store,
Leave no bottle cap as token of that lie thy soul hath spoken,
Leave my drunkeness unbroken, quit the table on my floor,
Take thy hops from off my tongue, a take thy form from off my floor,
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”

And the pale ale, never fizzing, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the oaken oakheart table sitting on my living room floor,
And his suds have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the IKEA lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my drunken form lies in that shadow that is floating on the floor,
The beer is never opened, into my glass is never poured!

(Original – The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Beer cover version by Oliver Gray)

He claimed never would I drink his flesh, but into my glass his soul did pour.

Next up: Brooklyn Pennant Ale ’55!