Imperial Mango Compass Sour
Sing to me of the can, Muse, the can of mangoes and tartness
Driven time and again into my mouth, once plundered
from the hallowed heights of the fridge.
Many adjuncts did it contain and learned their uses,
many flavours it blended, in the open glass,
fighting for deliciousness and to bring refreshingness home.
But it could not save itself from disaster, hard as it strove –
the artifice of its blending doomed them all,
the pale malt, the flaked and regular wheats,
and the mango puree wiped from sight the possibility of their return.
Nicely citric, almost lemony in its sourness,
with a zingy element of green mango for good measure.
all the beers, all who avoided headlong consumption,
were safe at home, escaped the parties and festivals.
But one can alone…
its mango aroma and flavours heavy with bewitching Calypso*,
the lustrous saffron yellow colour, hazed
and with a nice fizz, crying for libation.
Not too sweet that can, Muse, that lactic, crisp
clean tartness takes the mango stickiness and turns it,
into delightful fresh acid sourness, almost vinegary,
and with a nice mouthfeel – full, without being too rich.
Its journey, freighted far and fraught from Mordialloc
to inner urban Brunswick did end not after 40 years
but once it attracted the wrath and ire of the parched –
and so, great hubris did destroy it all, this can
being full to the brim with 6.3% happiness did entice the thirst
of the gods, to bring great ruin upon them all.
*Kensington Pride, actually, but the Calypso mango/Calypso sea goddess thing was too juicy (I will not apologise for that) to pass up.