The Gift Of Ale Poem by Dwight Jenkins

Ale is the happiest word in the world 
When the world isn't happy at all
And the happiest ale I can think to describe
Comes from Belgium: the tripel 'Westmalle.'

Monks make the ale in the name of their Christ
It's a heavenly nectar of gold
Complex as the God in whose name it is brewed
The Westmalle  merges new with the old

Creamy and smooth, also bitter and sweet
This ale makes me smile when I sip
And we all know that smiles can be hard to come by
When we're too busy biting our lip

At the cruelty of men, and their dumbness
The wasteland of women in heat
Or the state of the earth as we warm in surprise
At the fate that we fear we might meet

But none of that matters in Westmalle
In this cup I will trust till the end
Since smiling, laughter, and respite from pain
Are good gifts that God promised to men