A Visit From St. Brewcholas (Twas the Night Before Christmas Average Guy's Guide to Beer Edition)

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a beer was fizzing, not even a stout.
The beers were placed in the cellar with care,
In hopes that St Brewcholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and my head in my lap,
Had just settled our thirst with a winter’s nightcap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre to the liquid I projectiled below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so stumbly and sick,
I knew in a moment it must not be St Nick.
More rapid than drunkenness his coursers they came,
And he belligerently shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Deschutes! now, Duvel! now, Paulaner and Victory!
On, Cigar City! On, Chimay!, on Dogfish and Bruery!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now sip away! Chug away! Quaff away all!"

As dry hopped beers before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, IBUs to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of beer, and St Brewcholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The tapping of keg and clapping of hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St Brewcholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Brews he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a taphouse, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how red! his dimples how hairy!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard was wet with something not snow.

The stump of a glass he held tight in his teeth,
And the liquid encircled it's head like a wreath.
He had a drunk face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and bloated, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, a gut better than myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon he gave me a beer; I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the glassware, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"



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About Colin Smith

Hi, I'm Colin, I love a good hoppy IPA, but I can find immense enjoyment in a solid session beer, imperial stout, quadrupel or a nostalgic beer from my past.

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