A Visit From St. Knickerless

Botanical IPA

Mountain Goat Beer

‘Twas some day after Christmas, but not yet New Years,

And our Premier’d told us to “get on the beers”.

So our bottle bins clink, and rattle, and clank

While the other bin reeks of that old-prawn-shell stank.


We’d all played our role as Christmas gift-givers,

Filled up our bellies and punished our livers.

We doze in the sun and the days blend together

(Since March, though, time hadn’t mattered, however)


I lay in my garden, when things went amok

As I sprang from the hammock I screamed ‘what the fuck?!’

I turned the key deftly twixt finger and thumb,

And ran to the fridge whence the noise seemed to come.


My body protested my indulgent choices

As I tried to withstand its complaining voices.

I entered and loudly coughed, clearing my throat

And saw Brewer Kenny, from the old Mountain Goat!


“Here try this’ he said, looking much worse for wear

(His eyes were bloodshot, and so was his hair)

He gave me a can of the newest Rare Breed

A lovely art deco can, well filigreed.


It was their new botanical IPA

(My plans for not drinking simply went away)

I opened the can and instantly felt

Thirsty as citrus and pine I had smelt.


The citrus was yuzu and pine came from hops

I upended and poured, spilling just a few drops.

A clear, deep amber – a quite classic hue

With snowy white head – IPA through and through.


But the smell that arose upon cracking the can

Set it apart from the typical IPA plan.

Rich echoes of gin, juniper perfume

Enticingly began to fill up the room.


No more could I wait so I eagerly sipped

I threw back my head and I lifted and tipped

And the flavours that came were so fresh and so clean

That I felt like an Outkast (how d’you do, fellow teens?)


The tropical scent was there too in the flavour,

But the spices gave it a peppery savour

Fruit not only floral, spritzy and bright

But jammy and sweet, and blended just right.


It’s a 6.8 percent big heavy-hitter

Though that little juiciness makes it less bitter;

Unlike all the other West Coast palate-slayers,

This lays down its bitterness in soft, gentle layers.


I turned to Kenny to say ‘that’s alright!’

But he had just disappeared from my sight.

With a mischievous twinkle, that old Kenny scamp

Had pissed in the corner and ruined my lamp.


Still, he had made a great brew for this weather

Perfect to crack and to all drink together

‘Til the end of this year, the worst that has been

(But of course I’ve said that since 2016)


So if friends – in their boredom – decide to come over

(Provided of course, you aren’t too hungover)

Crack one of these and raise it on high

And say “Cheers Kenny – here’s mud in your eye!”


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