We’ve been so busy bringing you all the breaking craft beer news and indiscriminately hyping the latest holiday beers, that we didn’t get around to sending out Christmas cards again this year.

So  our “crafty” take on a classic holiday poem is going to have to do…

’Twas the Night Before Craftmas

’Twas the night before Craft-mas, and all through the brewhouse,
Not a tap handle stirring, not even a mouse.
The taps were all lined up, so clean and just right,
In hopes that St. Nicholas would stop by tonight.

The fermenters hummed as they slept in a row,
Dreaming of dry hops and fresh IPA flow.
The barrels stood patient, the  oak staves held tight,
In hopes of big stouts for the cold winter nights.

The brewers were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of pale ales danced in their heads.
Cashmere and Citra, Mosaic and Simcoe,
All perfectly timed for a hop-forward crescendo.

When out in the night sky  there arose such a clatter,
That they sprang to the window to see what was the matter.
Away to the roll-up it flew like a flash,
Past empty six-packs and last week’s mash.

The moon on the frost of the spent grain pile
Gave the luster of midwinter, crisp and worthwhile.
When what to their wondering eyes should appear,
But a flying sled full of really good beer.

With a grizzled old driver, so lively and quick,
That they knew in a moment—it must be St. Nick.

“Now Lager! Now Pils! Now Porter and Stout!
On Saison! On Kölsch! Let the sours roll out!
To the top of the tap list! To the end of the wall!
Now pour away! Pour away! Pour away all!”

He was dressed in red flannel, from boots to his hat,
And his beard smelled of barleywine and brewery vat.
new beers and bundle of stickers he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a festive sales rep just opening his pack.

His eyes—how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like mash tuns, his nose bright and cherry.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
Checked gravities twice (because Nick’s no jerk).

He filled all the fridges, then turned with a grin,
Left a case of cold IPA for the brewers to win.
And laying a finger aside of his nose,
He nodded and vanished like well-managed prose.

But they heard him exclaim, as he flew out of sight,
“Support local beer—and to all a good night!”

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Merry Christmas from the American Craft Beer crew!