In celebration of craft beer and Christmas, I reworked Clement Moore’s poem, “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” and modernized it to, “A Visit From St. Hipster.”
’Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,
Not a beer was pouring, not even an ounce.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Hipster soon would be there.
My wife and I nestled all snug in our bed,
While visions of Christmas beers danced in my head.
And my wife in her dirndl, and I in my lederhosen,
Had just drank a few beers we had chosen.
When down in my cellar there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the basement I flew like a flash,
Tore open the door to check on my stash.
Stouts and porters and Belgians on the floor?
I worried what I’d find behind the door.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a skinny man, and eight fallen craft beers.
It was a bearded old hipster, so lively and sick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Hip.
More rapid than beagles his curses they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called me a name;
“Now, Kulshan! Now, Aslan! Now Structures and Chuckanut!
On, Boundary Bay! On, Wander! Now, Menace and North Fork!
To the bottom of the bottles we go, until I fall!
Let’s drink them down! Drink away them all!”
Then, up to my beer fridge St. Hip flew,
And he’d forgotten about his bike full of beers for me and you.
A bundle of my beers he flung on his back,
And he looked like a beer peddler just closing his sack.
His eyes – how they were bloodshot! His breath how beery!
He should have eaten some foie gras, for he was growing weary.
His droll little mouth was drawn up when the beer ran out,
And the beard of his chin was dark from a stout.
A pile of bottles rested beneath,
Encircling St. Hip just like a wreath.
He had a red face and a beer belly,
And steamy breath that was very smelly.
He was stylish and fun, a right jolly old thief,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of my disbelief.
A wink of his eye as he poured a beer full of head,
Soon gave me to know something had to be said.
I spoke some words and pointed to his pack,
And threatened him harm if he didn’t give my beer back.
He spoke not a word, but gave me a smirk,
He must have realized he was being a jerk.
I tested his sobriety with his finger on his nose,
After giving him a nod, up from the floor he rose.
He sprang to the street and gave a taxi a whistle,
And away they drove like a flying missile.
But I heard him exclaim, as he drove out of sight,
“Christmas beers to all, and to all a good beer flight.”
