Where the Wild Ales Are

Golden Wild Ale – Blend 3

Black Arts Brewers and Blenders

The night Scottie poured his brew and made mischief of one kind

and another

his partner called him “Wild Thing!”

and Scottie said “come dance with me!”

so he was sent to the other room without music to be less annoying.

That very night, in the other room, a brewery grew

and grew

and grew, until the floor was covered with hoses, 

and the walls became barrels all around

and a waiter tumbled by with a private reserve for Scottie 

and he drank his way through the beer on the tray

and in and out of whiskys

and also another beer

to where the Wild Ales are.

And when he came to the place where the Wild Ales are, they popped their black and yellow cans and they poured their saffron-tinted sour blondes, and offered their very fizzy, slightly farty smelling brew

till Scottie said “OH, GO ON THEN!” and tamed them with the magic trick of looking at the beer against the light to appreciate how clear it was and smelling the brew for possibly a bit too long and they looked at him and called him the snobbiest thing of all

and made him king of all the beer snobs. 

“And now,” cried Scottie, “let the beer tasting start!”

“Now sip!” Scottie said, and the Wild Ales gave off their potent, tart and tangy flavour of fresh pears soaked in apple cider vinegar, and of sour lemon sherbert made with very fresh lemon juice that catches in the middle of the back of the tongue and trails all the way down the throat.

And Scottie, king of all of the beer snobs, was perplexed, because the complex and puckeringly tart beer in front of him tasted at once very fresh, and very old

like a very young riesling, or gewurtztraminer from an old barrel

with just a very light hint of grain at the back of the back palate

Then all around from far away across the world he smelled good things to eat so he gave up being king of the beer snobs

But the Wild Ales cried “Oh please don’t go

we’ll get you drunk – we’re 5.5% or so

and Scottie said “No!”

The Wild Ales clanked their black and yellow cans and frothed their saffron tinted sour blondes and huffed out their very fizzy, slightly farty smelling brews

but Scottie called for the waiter with the private reserve and paid his bill

And passed on the other beer

and in and out of whiskys

and past the beer on the tray

and into the night of his very own dining room where he found fish tacos waiting for him

and they were fucking delicious.

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