Night Before Christmas
'Twas 6 days before Christmas, when all through the brewery,
not a brewer was stirring, but no need to worry.
The beers were made by the brewer with care,
in hopes St. Nick’s IPA soon would be there.
Mug Clubbers were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of IPAs danced in their heads.
When out on the Bar there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the brewery to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The foam on the glass of the newly tapped brew,
gave a lustre like snow or morning’s first dew.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sled, and eight tiny reinbeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
and he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name.
"Now, HOPS! Now, MALT! Now, YEAST and WATER!
On, BARLEY! On ALE! On, BARREL and LAGER!
To the top of the Mash Tun! To the top of the Mill!
Now dash away! Dash away! Try not to spill!"
As dry Hops that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the brewery-top the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of brews, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard very near,
the prancing and clanking of each little beer.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
in came St. Nick with a brew he just downed.
He was dressed all in fur, from his bottom to top,
and his clothes were all tarnished with mash and hops.
A bundle of growlers he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His nose like a lambic, flavored with cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face, his gut round like a sphere,
that shook, when he laughed like a bowl full of beer.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the glasses, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
and away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, as I was a lapping,
"Hoppy Christmas to all,
and to all a good tapping!"
(thanks to Rock Bottom Brewery, King of Prussia, PA)
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