‘Twas the night before Beermas, and all through the house
Not a microbe was stirring, not even in kraus;
The bottles were lined in the kitchen with care,
In hopes that St. Augustine would soon be there;
The beards and the babes all snug in their beds;
While visions of hop bombs danced in their heads;
And mamma with her brown, and I with my brett,
Had just settled our brains for a night of regret,
When out of the stainless there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bar stool to see what was the matter.
Away to the brewhouse I made a mad dash,
Turned open the bright tank and inspected the mash;
The moon on the breast of the flocculated yeast,
Gave a yellowish glow to say but the least,
When what to my glazed eyes did appear,
But a miniature keg-sleigh all laden with beer,
With a little old brewer so making a fuss,
I knew in a moment must be Fermentus.
More rapid than taplines his libations they came,
And he sipped, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Doppel! now, Bock! now Porter and Amber!
On, Stout! on, Pale! on, Saison and Pilsner!
To the top of the silo! And try not to fall!
Now drink away! drink away! drink away all!”
As labels that on the wild bottling line fly,
When they meet with their glue must inevitably dry;
So up from the kegs the beers they did glug
With a cask full of dry hops, and too many a mug,
And then, in a twinkling, I heard with a crash
The clanking and clinking of bottles of glass
As I buzzed in my head, and was turning around,
Down the grain shoot came Fermentus with a bound.
He was dressed all in plaid, like a relic of grunge
And plopped on the floor like a carboy-free bunge,
A sixer of beers tucked under his arm,
And he looked like a Hill, fresh from his farm.
His malts—how they roasted! his adjuncts; all cherry!
His hops were like pine cones, all nasal and airy!
His droll little smile meant he knew best,
And the beard on his chin was as unkempt as a nest;
The old hydrometer he held tight in his teeth,
And the steam, it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a red face and a sway in his step
Either from the liquid itself or the amount he did schlep
He was clever and diligent, a right jolly sud slinger,
And I laughed when I saw him, that liquid cheer bringer.
A wink of his eye and a twist of a cap
Soon gave me to know I would like this old chap,
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the shakers; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger across ruddy lips,
And giving a nod, took but only a sip;
He sprang to his keg-sleigh, to his team gave a hollar,
And away they all flew like wind behind a dollar.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he swerved out of sight—
“Happy Beermas to all, and to all a good night!”
(My apologies for the subcultural bastardization. The original poem by Clement Clarke Moore can be found here)