Barman, draw a pint of ale:
The engine flings a stir of foam
Like milk into the herdsman’s pail,
Yeast-scented, rich as fruitful loam;
The beer, malt-brown or porter-black,
Creeps up the glass and undersits
That busy head, all white and smack,
Frothing with strength like a man in wits.
As more is pumped, it shoves the head
Inch by inch to the glass’s top;
Its first-froth done, its body shed,
That cream thins out to suds and sop.
The beer keeps flowing, pull on pull,
The skim laps at the glass’s lip;
Forced over once the glass is full,
It tumbles in a weeping drip.
Helpless, those shattered shreds let go
The glass they once were lively in,
And fall to slops like melting snow,
Dishonoured in the spillage tin.
Only stray strings of froth now drift
That brown-hued pint of bitter beer;
Expelled by growth, its fate was swift:
He who has ears to hear should hear.
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© November 2015
