Sept.  2020
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The Poetry of Beer

Curious Stuff
T.  A. Houseman

Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think:
Look into the pewter pot
To see the world as the world’s not
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Beer Needed
Harold Jones

Whiskey is nice
with water or ice
But how I long for a beer
Just a pint won't do
I'll need more than a few
No matter what time of the day
Truth be told
as long as it's cold
I'll drink it all up right away

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In Praise of Beer
by Hilaire Bellock

o exalt, enthrone, establish and defend,
To welcome home mankind's
mysterious friend
Beer, true begetter of all arts that be;
Beer, privilege of the completely free;
Beer the recorder; wine the
sagely strong;
Beer, bright avenger of
sly-dealing wrong,
Awake, Ausonian Muse, and
sing the brewers' song!
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Old Poets
Joyce Kilmer

There should be a club for poets
Who have come to seventy year.
They should sit in a great hall drinking
Red wine and golden beer.

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Beer For Breakfast
Chuck Iken

Why do I feel shame,
Sitting to order breakfast,
Asking what’s on tap?
The Beer Drinker
Arthur Symon

Gently I wave the visible world away.
Far off, I hear a roar, afar yet near,
Far off and strange, a voice is in my ear,
And is the voice my own? the
words I say

Fall strangely, like a dream,
across the day;
And the dim sunshine is a dream.
How clear,
New as the world to lovers’ eyes, appear
The men and women passing
on their way!

The world is very fair. The hours are all
Linked in a dance of mere forgetfulness.
I am at peace with God and man.

O glide,Sands of the hour-glass that
I count not, fall
Serenely: tis wonderful beer's soft caress
Rocked on this dreamy and
indifferent tide.
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Bourbon County Stout
by Jeff Steinway

The nose on it wasn't sublime.
It hadn't reached close to its prime.
The new Bourbon County Stout
I couldn't quite yet tout
To drink it now is truly a crime.
Give it time, give it time

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Heather Ale
Robert Louis Stevenson

From the bonny bells of heather
They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far then honey,
Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
In their dwellings underground.

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