(Haze is, in the end, whatever the Hell I want it to be,
And when Henry is through with it, it’s gonna blow a hole,
This wide, straight through the BJCPs own idea of itself.
They’re throwing crowlers at your house.
Come on, lets go break their arms.) You talk about the way IPAs were,
But I can’t hear what you’re saying.
A time when dry hopping was not this hard,
Blessed by boil Bittering innocence.
Is the best hops to come?
Or did it pass by long ago?
Are we holding on to London ale,
Or something already dead?
Trub is not your reason to stand up straight,
Shoulders back, chest out, and mash paddles raised.
Stepping back, brewers hesitate.
Cicerones won’t let traditional styles be taken.
Is the haze yet to trub?
Or did oats pass by long ago?
Are we holding on to a motueka,
Or a rhizome already dead?
You can’t change your style, expect me to care.
At 2pm on a Wednesday, Monkish can’t just snap your fingers and expect me to be there.
Can’t just announce a line.
The reception of haze, the signals breaking up.
Are brewers moving on or are they giving up?
Before macrobrews co opt and ruin everything,
Crack. Juice. Cans. Today.