Sonnet No. 14

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”