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I lean into the brew pub window festooned with redwood burl

Warming a barstool, drawing water figure 8s on the table

A greying coonhound stares at me through the window panes

His is a throne of vigilance in the bed of a monster pickup

A cobalt blue Ford with a suitable amount of mud

I rate my Fuller's Vintage Ale: England brews, livelier liquor than the Muse

The dog considers me: fine, but tepid next to his master

God judges the hound: not long for this world, but destined for dog heaven

There's circularity in our universe, so is it the beer that watches God?

No matter...

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think


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