An ode to Black Boss Porter. (and Poland)



In darkened nights and winter icy chill,

Drew up from deep like earth’s blood to spill,

Adorned in yin pitch  and yang white,

Without the pageantry Sam A. or Magic H. might.


Brewed  within the windswept polish plain,

where foes hath fought and bodies doth lain,

Thought death take mirth and grind to sorrow,

yet then came through to fill the empty hollow


Liquid dark in icy chill

for our heart’s and mind’s to fill,

the essence of earth and life so full

to stave off the fear of empty pull


A crisp approach of midnight molasses sky,

Reminds of fresh endeavors to try,

A cremey coffee finish

Resonates life’s nectar without diminish.


And while some might say what is fair and true,

They fail to grasp the naked glory that is this brew,

A power deep and strong need not advocate with much fuss,
Such is true with the Porter: Black Boss.



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