After Oscar Wilde’s Madonna Mia
A sweet-stout, made for this stout-lover’s mouth to drain,
Pours brown to black in glass headed by 1/2 in. foam,
And enticing aromas of roasted malts and sweetened loam
Like blackest night seen through mists of rain:
Pale head dissolves no lace hath left its stain,
Creamy feel tones smooths bitter coffee notes in mouth,
And down the throat, smoother than the standard stout,
From whose wan bottle empties another black vein.
Now, though my lips shall praise it without cease,
Even to guzzle it down I am not bold,
Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe,
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Within the cooling sixer’s packaging, I saw
Another sweet Stout, the Beer of Black Gold.