Imperial ales coerced our high gravity choices one day.
Bleeding, drenched and on full alert,
I limped from the Tuck's bank to the brewery.
With one pole wet, my whistle was next;
I needed hoppy nourishment, salty pretzels and a stool.
Lacking fish or gear, I imagined it would be difficult
to explain my appearance, but I didn't give a ****; I come as is.
To my 3 o'clock a smoke ring silhouette vacuumed my
exhale like spooling cotton candy from 3 feet away;
I took a breath and inhaled her dandelion seeds.
A tattoo of a paper airplane on her wrist was faded from afar,
yet as she flew closer the ink appeared fresh, 2-3 weeks old.
Her hair smelled of patchouli, parsnips, an Asheville scent.
Closer now, I recognized a look of love or disgust in her eyes.
Can't tell em' apart anymore, as the prior wears a disguise,
eventually becoming the latter.
She asks my name and I ask the barkeep for two double IPA's.
We don't need a racetrack to run in circles anymore.
Seek out the dangerous path, the easy one's have cattle trails.
