Even my dog can forgive me this doggerel
on account of how it's NB:TB's poetry inaugural;
if you're rolling your eyes instead of trimming your side shoots back,
get thee out to your hopyard and cut me some slack.
I. Liberty
Now you are six,
my tetraploid Mittelfrüh hybrid chicks.
We brewed Bock and CAP with the crop of aught-nine;
This year I got you a longer horizontal run of twine.
And late in the summer when your cones hang heavy
I shall be sitting under you, nursing a big cold bevvy.
"Alley-hop" men have named you;
despite the snowplow you've survived.
Wet-hop IPAs have you brew'd,
of which to drink, friends've connived.
Beer is eternal, yet each glass but a dream,
suffused with homegrown ass-kicking cohumulone supreme.
The Horizon seems far off and obscure;
it's just barely sent up its shoots.
Patience and dirt and sheep manure
went down that hole with its roots.
I'm banking on bitterness neutral and pure,
I don't want to have to brew gruits.
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