The Rime of the Rain-Soaked Brewers

By Lord Thomas

Bard of the Muscrats

An Epic Poem in Five Parts

With apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge

T'was an ancient brewer

that stop-ped one of three.

The one cried out 'Why does thus stop

me from my friends party'?

'We plan to feast upon roast beast

at this most pleasant Pub.

Yet grab me thus with hands like dust

which give un-pleasant rub'

With glinting eye the Brewer spake

near thrust him in the sewer.

'Sit down ye knave! This time you'll save

for the Rime of the Rain-Soaked Brewers.'

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

T'was warm.

The good South Wind did blow

upon the festival.

With happy good folk gathered 'round

enjoyed by one and all.

With sights and sounds and scent of food

the Gyros did but cook.

The Kettle Corn, none did mourn,

its eating was not forsook

There brewers three under a tree

with wort a steamy stewin'.

Good times were these and all would please

this beer that was a brewin'.

The Brewers laughed and tales they passed

as the beer was bubbly brewin'

'Twas the Evil Mrs. Lincoln' spake one.

'T'was Her that me made thus.

She spake and spake and then she spake,

her speech that hear I must'.

Yes Mrs. Lincoln made me Mad

From the speech that hear I must.

'And spake she did and lunch I missed

that I had keenly wanted.

Though I not whined, I missed the dine

that I had keenly wanted'.

Then in the west they did attest

dark clouds did start to gather.

The sun grew dim under the din

that crept to-wards the brewers.

Nine fathems high, up in the sky

a spirit moved tempest black.

The beer most dear with bubbling cheer

may perish from the attack.

And all did flee from fair old tree.

The trio were now forlorn.

The wind grew strong against the throng

and blew their kettle corn!

'What wrong did we that cursed our glee

and blew our kettle corn'?

The wind was here, the wind was there,

the wind was all around.

One of the three left the tree.

The strong wind did abound.

The clouds grew black. The wort placed back

under a fold-up table.

The rest you'll know as the story goes

tis truth and not a fable.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'Release me ancient brewer

I need not go afar.

With drink and merriment and slake

my thirst inside that bar.

Release me Ancient Brewer

to drink inside that bar'

'Shut up you twit'! With thunder fit

the Brewer did declare.

'Here you will sit till I see fit

or you'll get the comfy chair'.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
III

Now under attack the one came back

to help the daring duo.

The storm grew fierce and thunder pierced.

Hard rain was soon to follow

The rain drove hard, the wind did gust.

Hops were tossed into the pot

Fierce lads the three held hopes of glee

but feared their brew may rot.

Then to their dread one spake and said

'See the departing vehicle

with Air lock stowed inside'. Their hopes now blown

for their lovely tawney ale.

Tis sad, tis true, their hopes were blown

for a tasty hoppy ale.

Still worse, they realized all was lost

and fell into to in-action.

No vessel there did they possess

for required fermentation.

Their tawney beer would never cheer

without the fermentation.

They looked into the driving rain.

It stung upon the skin!

They looked on high into the storm,

its spirit hissed within.

'Go now'! But worse, their luck was cursed.

This storm was really stinkin.

They shrieked, the clouds took on a face.

'My God! It's MRS. LINCOLN'!

T'was to their horror that it should be

the ghost of Mrs. Lincoln.

Their only hope to save the brew

that hell storm sought to thwart

t'was to phone the kindly Oracle

and seek out his support.

Please please kindly Oracle,

do come as fast as able

and bring a fermentation jug

for the wort under the table

Yes, a six-point-five gallon jug will do

for the wort under the table.

The rain! It did blow sideways now

as the pissed off Mrs Lincoln

threw all her fury at those boys

with vengence, but with no thinkin

She falterd with her incessant blows.

The clouds began to split

and through the mist the three could see

a downbound freighter ship.

But the pause was brief. The fiendish

hag still was not through

with her blinding split-white lightning

and horrendous thunder boom.

The three held fast and did not

abandone their tawny aquafer.

And so you see, they came to be:

the Daring Rain-Soaked Brewers

Still in a snit Mrs. Lincoln spit

rain. Oh so cold it seared.

Then shout of horn struck though the din.

The Oracle appeared!

That fearless Irish Pict came to the group

with carboy he did set.

'Fear not me lads. This trio has

become a brave quartet'.

Twenty feet tall

the Oracle will tell you that he stands.

But he also says that Brave Heart

was his Great Grand Daddy Man.

But twenty feet nor two inches high

it really did not matter

for Mrs Lincoln could'nt face

an Irish Scot-Man Brewer.

Off she fled away you see

leaving bits of fair all tossed

and took her clouds, and wind, and rain,

chased by an albatross.

Yes off she went the wicked wraith

chased by an albatross!

And so the Rain-Soaked Brewers

saved that tawney dew of glee

and made it into liquid

that invites good revelry.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

'I'll have no more!' said the Party Man.

His speech it did not falter.

Up straight he stood and looked upon

that old unsightly Brewer'

'You Evil sprite, I drink Bud Light!

Of Ale I do not care.

I drink cheap beer! Can you not hear?

Go on, get outta here'!

But eyes glowed dark. The reveler's bark

the Brewer cared not to hear.

What happened next, all would attest

tis a story hard to bear.

For in the Pub the two who drank

and dined without their friend

on Haggis fresh. Not made from flesh

of cow, or pig, or lamb.

On a squat and gray plump Haggis,

they dined upon their friend.

So in your travels to and fro

stay calm and take delight,

in the Rime of the Rain-Soaked Brewers

or bad fate will surly strike!