Ode on a Guinness Pint (based on "Ode on a Grecian Urn" by John Keats)
Thou still unravish'd bride of drunkenness, Thou foster-child of slurring and slow talk, Dublin historical, who helps us express A bellicose mood, though we can barely walk: What harp-stringed legend gleams upon thy shape On glasses, or on bottles, or on cans In Tavern, from St. James Gate Brewery?
What alcoholics these? What drinking fans? Our dreary lives we struggle to escape With stouts and porters. What mad ecstasy! Some call lagers sweet, but dark stouts Are sweeter; therefore, ye black pint, pour on. Not like the Superbowl tastes, impatient louts, Drawn to the pallid brews that have no taste: Fair pint, beneath the tap, thou make'st me wait Thy foam, not ever can it hurried be. Bold Flavor, never, never shouldst thou change, Though losing market share to foul Bud Light; Please do not fade! Do not your fans estrange! For ever will I love imbibing thee!
Ah, happy, happy pint! that has been made It says, since seventeen and fifty-nine; And, happy (I hope) barmaid, For ever pouring beer, for us divine; More happy beer! more happy, happy beer! For ever luscious dark, to be admired; For ever creamy, praises to be sung; Night of many pitchers and good cheer, That leaves a drinker hungover and tired, A pounding forehead, and a parching tongue. Who are these coming to the lav'ratr'y? To porcelain altar, as Mis'ry's wan guest, Knelt down, these drunkards, nausea in mastr'y, And all their aching heads against it rest? What little crowd by taxi or on foot, Or designated driver shunning ale, Empties from this pub, as last call's heard? And, little drunks, home sleeping for the night Will silent be; and not a pint to sell 'Til next day's evening, and they return
O Graceful shape! Fairly brewed! with barley Roasted malt, and yeast and flow'ry hops, With nitrous pull and top of white foam, Thou, alcohol, dost tease us out of thought. Forget eternity: Cool stout and Ale! When old age shall this generation waste, Thou must remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to all who seek your taste. Beer is truth, truth beer,--that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Ode on a Guinness Pint
(based on "Ode on a Grecian Urn" by John Keats)
Thou still unravish'd bride of drunkenness,
Thou foster-child of slurring and slow talk,
Dublin historical, who helps us express
A bellicose mood, though we can barely walk:
What harp-stringed legend gleams upon thy shape
On glasses, or on bottles, or on cans
In Tavern, from St. James Gate Brewery?
What alcoholics these? What drinking fans?
Our dreary lives we struggle to escape
With stouts and porters. What mad ecstasy!
Some call lagers sweet, but dark stouts
Are sweeter; therefore, ye black pint, pour on.
Not like the Superbowl tastes, impatient louts,
Drawn to the pallid brews that have no taste:
Fair pint, beneath the tap, thou make'st me wait
Thy foam, not ever can it hurried be.
Bold Flavor, never, never shouldst thou change,
Though losing market share to foul Bud Light;
Please do not fade! Do not your fans estrange!
For ever will I love imbibing thee!
Ah, happy, happy pint! that has been made
It says, since seventeen and fifty-nine;
And, happy (I hope) barmaid,
For ever pouring beer, for us divine;
More happy beer! more happy, happy beer!
For ever luscious dark, to be admired;
For ever creamy, praises to be sung;
Night of many pitchers and good cheer,
That leaves a drinker hungover and tired,
A pounding forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the lav'ratr'y?
To porcelain altar, as Mis'ry's wan guest,
Knelt down, these drunkards, nausea in mastr'y,
And all their aching heads against it rest?
What little crowd by taxi or on foot,
Or designated driver shunning ale,
Empties from this pub, as last call's heard?
And, little drunks, home sleeping for the night
Will silent be; and not a pint to sell
'Til next day's evening, and they return
O Graceful shape! Fairly brewed! with barley
Roasted malt, and yeast and flow'ry hops,
With nitrous pull and top of white foam,
Thou, alcohol, dost tease us out of thought.
Forget eternity: Cool stout and Ale!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou must remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to all who seek your taste.
Beer is truth, truth beer,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
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