Cranky Reviews

Dead as a gravestone

Twas a late night cold and dreary, JT and I were getting beery,

Over many a quaint and curious pints to score

While I nodded nearly napping, at the window came a flapping

And so did a midnight black Raven appear at my door.

Where no bird had been before.

The jet black omen, known to all men, made itself quite at home.

It perched upon our drawing room bar, this portent of lore and yore.

Struggling with a rhyme for home, I almost gave up on this poem

Then presuming a fowl thirst, I asked him what he’d like me to pour,

He said “My namesake brew, and nothing more”.

A dark and ominous cream ale is what he had come for.

A tasty dark lager style brew as smooth as the night was his cravin’

And I happened to have R&B Raven that I knew he would adore

The beer he had requested, that bore his name, as pitch dark as the Raven.

He drank it quickly and said “Just one more.”

The bird had a thirst like none I had seen, impossible to slake,

One after another, from beak to gullet, he must have drank a score.

It soon became apparent, that his intake was more than he could take

As he lay serious prone as a grave stone on the barroom floor.

The next morning quoth the Raven “Nevermore”

Edgar Allan’s Pour