The Night Before Festivous

Santa_Beer

 

Twas the night before Festivous, when all through the brewery

Not a creature was stirring, it was like a silent movie;

The tanks were all standing next to each other with care,

In hopes that the big brews soon would be there;

The brewers were settled, all snug with their pints,

And visions of golden ales danced in their sights,

 

And Mama in her work boots, and me in my cap,

Had just settled down for a strong winter night-cap

When out on the street there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the table to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew with my glass

To witness the taggers beginning their pass.

 

When, what to my bleary eyes should appear,

But a miniature beer truck, and eight tiny rein-beers

With a little old driver, on the taps lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick.

More quick than fresh hops his helpers they came,

As he whistled, and shouted, and he poured them by name:

 

“Now! Dageraad, now! Brassneck now! Bomber and Cranoog,

On! Dogwood, on! Storm, on! Old Abbey and Longwood;
”

To the top of the list! To the top of them all!
”

Now pour a glass! Pour a glass! Pour glasses for all!”

 

So up to the house-top in the beer truck they flew,

With the sleigh full of suds — and Saint Nicholas too:

It wasn’t long, when I heard what I thought was a hoof,

It was the sound of beer cans popping and bottle caps on the roof.

 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

In from the cold room Saint Nick came with a bound:

He was dressed in red coveralls, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with spent grain and wort trub;

A bag full of hops was flung on his back,

And he looked like a brewer just opening a sack.

 

His eyes — how they twinkled! I could tell he’d had a few,

He spoke of a stout, a wheat and a sour or two

The handle of his stein he held tight in his fist,

He said the smoked porter was one of the best.

He had a pilsner, a dunkel and an IPA too

And a true Belgian Tripel to name but a few.

 

He was chubby and plump, but was serving it right,

All brews in proper glasses, all radiant and bright;

He twinkled his eyes as he topped up the head

On a perfectly poured pint of beer that was red.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all our mugs; then turned with a jerk,

 

And singing out loud a fine Christmas cheer,

He one last time raised up his big glass of beer,

As he sprung to his truck, he gave a long look afar,

And away they all flew, looking for the next bar.

 

But I heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight —

Hoppy Christmas to all, and to all a malty good night.

 

—with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore

 

ChristmasBeer