| The Brewer | |
| 181 | A brewer spends about a month |
| perfecting his beer thoughts. | |
| A recipe to please the mass – | |
| it’s all he’s ever sought! | |
| 185 | Dark beers are just enjoyed by few; |
| the light ones have no taste; | |
| no, amber is the trendy choice, | |
| so amber’s what he’ll make. | |
| The maltiest of tasty beers | |
| 190 | has two-row as its base. |
| He’ll color it with Munich grains | |
| and car’mel, just a trace! | |
| To bitter he’ll use hallertau, | |
| then secret hops he’s grown | |
| 195 | will add aroma to his drink |
| and make the beer his own. | |
| And yeast! He can’t forget the yeast, | |
| his magic little friends. | |
| A hundred billion hungry lives | |
| 200 | will dine in great suspense. |
| On brewing day he buys supplies. | |
| He outlines his grand plan. | |
| He weighs out grains, turns on the heat, | |
| and washes tools by hand. | |
| 205 | He steeps the specialty malt bill |
| in his five-gallon pot – | |
| one hundred fifty-two degrees | |
| for twenty minutes clocked. | |
| The two-row extract measured out | |
| 210 | will make the wort grow thick. |
| Now stir in the fermentables | |
| until they’re nice and mixed. | |
| To bitter his progressing beer | |
| the first hops now are due. | |
| 215 | The others are for flavoring |
| his wonderful craft brew. | |
| When sixty minutes finally pass | |
| the boil will be done. | |
| Then rapid cooling must take place | |
| 220 | lest an infection comes. |
| The last step that the brewer takes | |
| will be to pitch the yeast. | |
| The starving little creatures dive | |
| into their mighty feast. | |
| 225 | Two weeks go by in perfect heat; |
| degrees are well maintained. | |
| The airlock lets some bubbles through | |
| as C-O-2 escapes. | |
| Then bott’ling day arrives in haste, | |
| 230 | and carbonation starts. |
| The amber ale will be sublime – | |
| a sum of all its parts. | |
| On tasting day he cannot wait! | |
| He opens one with skill. | |
| 235 | He takes a tentative test sip |
| and spits out horrid swill. | |
| The taste is off, the flavor sour. | |
| The yeast had made it gross! | |
| A man controls so many things, | |
| 240 | but life acts on its own. |

