Sean Nordquist

‘Twas Two Nights Before Christmas

‘Twas two nights before Christmas, and I realized with shame
I’d forgotten to Hop Press; (it starts with my name).
The other gang members were writing with vim,
In hopes that St Arnold would recognize them.

The hopheads were nestled all snug in their beds,
With visions of simcoe and cascade still in their heads.
And RateBeer dot com was filled with reviews
From all the beer lovers talking about brews.

When then from the kitchen there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my couch to see what was the matter.
And then to the beer fridge I flew with concern,
To grab a craft beer, and then to return

The moon on the fridge cast an ominous shape
I feared I might not get my hop-filled escape!.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a gang of beer writers, from the Hop Press by RateBeer.

With bespectacled leader, from Sonoma County,
I knew we would soon enjoy some well-brewed bounty.
More rapid than Dogfish on the quest for extreme,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called out the team!

“Now Beer Wench! now, Beer Babe! Goddess, Josh Christie!
On, PJ! On, Weber! Ken Weaver, Cendrowski!
Koenemann, Oakes, Agnew, and McPhee
Mark Dredge and Jon and Beer for the Daddy”

As dry hops that before the wild fermenter fly,
When they meet with an kettle, and mount to the sky.
So then to the bar-stools we beer-lovers flew,
With hands gripping bottles or our favorite brew.

We tasted our bevies, the mood was sanguine
We opened a Tactical Nuclear Penguin.
And Anchor, Sierra, and Stone we all tasted,
Cigar City, New Belgium, not a single drop wasted.

Then whom should appear like a settling Guinness,
but St. Arnold himself, just to put more beer in us.
A cooler of craft beer he put on the bar,
And he looked like a peddler, just much more rock-star.

His offerings ranged from the hoppy to sweet
the Porters and Lagers and nice Belgian wheat
His infectious laughter he could not curtail,
And his mustache was soaked by the foam of his ale.

The glass that he drank from was blown for a stout,
But really he would have whatever poured out.
He had a kind face and a big round beer gut,
That sloshed when he laughed and began to strut.

We passed around tastings, and waxed all poetic,
About the fine flavors and lovely aesthetic.
We talked about bitterness and ABV,
And I found that the levels were getting to me.

I yawned and I stretched as I took tasting notes,
And figured we’d all have our own “best beer” votes.
And Arnold he said, as he put on his gloves,
“Its time for me to spread more beer love!”

He sprang to his ride, not quite sure what is was,
We all shouted “Say Hi to ol’ Santa Claus!”
But we heard him exclaim, ‘ere he disappeared,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a craft beer!”

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