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.