Twas the night before brew day, when all through the house
Not an airlock was stirring, not even a louse.
The blowoffs were hung by the fermentors with care,
In hopes that St Arnold soon would be there.
The parents were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of gravities danced in their heads.
And me in my shirtsleeves, and her in her wrap,
Had just settled our brains for a little, uh... nap.
When out of the fermenter there arose such a spatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the clatter.
Away to the brewery I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door and threw up the sash.
The moon on the glass of the new-brewed beer
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects I fear.
When, what to my wondering eyes doth spies,
But a monstrous krausen, and eight tiny flies.
With a flash of panic, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be sick.
More rapid than eagles my mind does fly,
What could I do, so my brew didn't die!
"Now starsan! now, Campden! now, should I start stirring?
On, Comet! no, stupid! onward it's purring!
To the top of the fermenter! to the top of the lock!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away flocc!"
As a rocket that before fire flies,
When it meets with my cap, it blows to the skies.
So up to the ceiling the air lock did blow,
With the geyser full of krausen, and alcohol did flow.
And then, in a twinkling, it settled right down
The gurgling and fizzy of each little sound.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
I awoke with a start, at the least little sound.
I ran to my brewery, to see the fell sight
And to my surprise, all was alright.
I checked on my fermenters, each with a care
Just to be sure, that all were there.
Soon I discovered, a dream was it merely
One that had cost me sleep, but dearly.
The brew that has splattered, on my ceiling so sadly
Had yet to be brewed, gladly.
Written by me tonight. I was going to do the whole poem, but I sorta ran out of steam. Merry Christmas HBT!
Not an airlock was stirring, not even a louse.
The blowoffs were hung by the fermentors with care,
In hopes that St Arnold soon would be there.
The parents were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of gravities danced in their heads.
And me in my shirtsleeves, and her in her wrap,
Had just settled our brains for a little, uh... nap.
When out of the fermenter there arose such a spatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the clatter.
Away to the brewery I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door and threw up the sash.
The moon on the glass of the new-brewed beer
Gave the luster of mid-day to objects I fear.
When, what to my wondering eyes doth spies,
But a monstrous krausen, and eight tiny flies.
With a flash of panic, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be sick.
More rapid than eagles my mind does fly,
What could I do, so my brew didn't die!
"Now starsan! now, Campden! now, should I start stirring?
On, Comet! no, stupid! onward it's purring!
To the top of the fermenter! to the top of the lock!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away flocc!"
As a rocket that before fire flies,
When it meets with my cap, it blows to the skies.
So up to the ceiling the air lock did blow,
With the geyser full of krausen, and alcohol did flow.
And then, in a twinkling, it settled right down
The gurgling and fizzy of each little sound.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
I awoke with a start, at the least little sound.
I ran to my brewery, to see the fell sight
And to my surprise, all was alright.
I checked on my fermenters, each with a care
Just to be sure, that all were there.
Soon I discovered, a dream was it merely
One that had cost me sleep, but dearly.
The brew that has splattered, on my ceiling so sadly
Had yet to be brewed, gladly.
Written by me tonight. I was going to do the whole poem, but I sorta ran out of steam. Merry Christmas HBT!
