Tom's iambic pentameter verse:
When I do taste a hops that rapes my face,
The flow of tears: one bitter, one joyful.
I inhale the scent
Of freshly cut juniper,
Then taste: NO NO NO
Dave and I brew beer,
Yet hops I still do fear.
They hurt my palate,
But Dave writes ballads
And keeps a 90-minute near.
[Reference: Dogfish Head 90-minute IPA]
I once drank a beer from Aurora,Jam-packed with indigenous flora.
More drinks I demanded
Of sweet Heavy Handed,
Until carried home by Laura.
[Reference: Two Brothers Heavy Handed]
I wish I could but speak to him, myself
At one-and-twenty: "Listen not to lies
Of 'triple-hops' that sit upon that shelf:
Subsist no longer on water and rice!
Take this instead: a pale ale, more or less -
No ‘smoothness’ here, no ‘drinkability’ -
But what is sweetness without bitterness?
Or craft without thought; complexity?
But sip them slow, these citrus notes of spring,
Proud songs of green grasses and summer sun.
For these! Not delicate nor forgiving,
Assault the palate; numb the novice tongue."
Much else we'd say as we two quenched our thirst,
But that would wait, for love for hops comes first.