I remember when I was told a story of

Crushed black patent malt, bottle wax, and whole hop flowers 

The brewer on the barrels, all dressed up in boots with vanilla beans , calling

Beckoning to drink, offering a dream

The ticks were as mystical as fermented tangibles

The circle of trades, the fantomes left the stage 

The stout was so tangible I’ll never let it go

Pastry stories handed down, reached secret Florida raffles below.

No one would read DDB.

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