For beer that will abide as a link sure
To damp white rising spring flower
When ole Goethe sang of vestal bower,
Let never our souls be those that cower
From this, the season’s most goatish power:
The sacred flow at Earth’s fruitful hour–
When on the dead seed falls liv’ning shower.
We sing to the finest barley tincture.

2 thoughts on “Bock”

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