Shall I compare thee to a Summer Ale? Thou art more hoppy on my front palate. Brewers do take the resin’d cones wholesale And shape body, and nose, most delicate. Sometimes too dank the feel of IPA And oft its gold’n subtlety is lost And from numb’d lips a voice is forced to say Continue reading “Sonnet No. 14”
Self indulgence at its finest
Exit Pursued by a Beer 