’Twas the night before Beer Week, give or take a few days,
Common Thread Baltic Porter had just entered the fray,
Beer passports were placed at the venues ’round town
So revelers would know where it soon would go down.
I had just drifted off, not even getting to bed,
While visions of barleywines danced in my head;
With GCal on the laptop, and on my iPhone the app,
I had just cleared my schedule to enjoy what’s on tap,
When from out on the lawn, inexplicable noise
Made me jump off the couch mutt’ring, “Damn neighbor boys.”
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
And drawing open the blinds I looked out, aghast.
The moonlight, filtered through leaf buds in pools,
Spilled upon a bar’s clamor, and behold, one free stool!
And what, on this wondrous mirage did appear,
But a miniature paddle for eight tiny flight beers,
With millennial servers so earnest and inked,
I knew in a moment they’d know what I should drink.
More rapid than eagles the courses they came,
One bartender leaned forward and shouted their names:
“This one’s Darkness! Here’s Krankshaft! Mutha Pucka and Sculpin!
One Tank 7! Abraxas! Napalm Bunny and Penguin!
From the left to the right, none too short or too tall!
Please slide over a little, we’ll get to you all!”
As the corks that restrain Stone’s Enjoy After fly,
When you loosen the cage, nervously squinting your eyes;
So up to my facehole the tasters they flew
Small glassfuls of joy, and refillable, too —
And then, o’er the din, I heard footsteps, from where?
The sound of some person’s boots stomping upstairs.
As I set down my taster, and was turning to see,
Down the stair walked Mark Garthwaite — well, naturally.
It could only make sense in a dream or a vision
That the Brewer’s Guild director was there in my kitchen.
A six-bomber tote bag he held over his shoulder,
He looked like a schoolboy, though juuuuust a bit older
In my state, I accepted he was here in my house,
Though confused how he’d got past my cat, dog and spouse.
He set down a bottle, topped off with a bow,
Though I figured that when I awoke, it would go;
It’s April, I thought, this is not the right season
For gift-giving sneaks to drop in without reason.
My brain tried to figure out his visit’s cause,
And why he was dressed like some Beer Santa Claus.
But I always see Garthwaite ’round this time of year,
And I laughed when I realized why he was here.
He scrolled forward a month on my calendar (bold!),
Thus reminding me Great Taste tickets soon would be sold.
He spoke not a word, high-fived the whole bar,
Refilled all the tasters; then turned toward his car,
But taking my phone (it was already unlocked),
He set May 7th’s alarm for Stupid O’Clock.
He stepped to his car, made the bar disappear,
And I awoke with a smile, knowing the party was near.
So let me end this poem with just one last tweak —
“Drive safe and enjoy Madison Craft Beer Week!”
