The 32 American craft brews are chilling. The elbows of the Gregs (Kitsock and Engert) are in their proper position. And the panel of judges for this year’s Beer Madness has been chosen — but the afterglow from poring over the verse-fied panel entries lingers on.
What is it about those ales, stouts and Pilseners that inspires haiku and limerick? For those who felt compelled to flout the rules, and for the rest of us who agree that smiling and beer go hand in hand, we offer a sampling of poetic yet non-winning entries after the jump. We’ll introduce you to the 2012 tasting panel on Monday.
You’ve got beer to taste?
I’m there (Washington) Post-haste
But, please, nothing low quality
See, I know my zymology.
So light and lively,
Tongues thicken anticipating
the chilled brewed hops.
The kids slurp juice while the husband sips wine, but Mom pops a beer most everyday time!
I’m a hardly a lager lout, but more a devotee of an intense stout, or an IPA with clout, with a porter penchant quite devout!
A beer drinker tastes
a drop of heaven on earth
He is a jolly man who loves beer,
How much he can drink is not clear
From hop bombs to Belgians
There really is no tell’ns
What new tastes he will find with a cheer.
A bartender drank beer by the bucket
Faster than brewers could truck it
For craft beer to taste
He entered (WaPo)st-haste
So non-craft beers can go suck it.
I’ll leap for a brew, especially this year, with the extra day to enjoy good beer.
My lean years now gone —
a gut on my lanky frame
from love, malt, and hops.
I may be young,
but the craft of fine beer is not wasted on this tongue,
because my experience qualifies me for such a task,
and I promise I won’t bring my own flask.
I am a foodie
I like beer, ale and porter
I am from right here.
I’m young, blonde, and thin;
Too often mistaken for a chick who’d like tonic and gin,
But my Wisconsin-raised taste buds disagree;
The way to my heart is a brew with a high ABV.
Bold, flavorful beers
Hop-tastic drops of nectar
Bitter??? Oak-y??? Great!
There once was an aficionado of ale
whose liver his friends did all hail
“This year I'm picked by The Post”
He said with the mightiest of boast
Pssst, the check is in the mail.
Too many snobs!
What should I do?
Forget the grapes
and drink Belgian brew.
I think therefore I am; I drink time and again; I think drink so I can.
Travel for beer tours
would quit day job for a hop farm.
Years of drinking ales by the pails with other males regaling tales entitles me to what this job entails:
determining what’s malty and what’s paltry
what’s hopped and what’s flopped
what’s an imperial, and what’s immaterial
what’s stout, what’s porter, what’s out of order
and what isn't even beer enough to sit in the scales.
In a hop heaven;
I’ll taste beer for a living;
Greg Engert is God.