[Intro] (Complex, jittery guitar tapping in a Seven-Eight time signature. The drums enter with a staggered, polyrhythmic kick. A dissonant woodwind flourish squeaks in the background.) [Verse 1] I’m cornered by a bloke named Keith in a pub called The Rusty Nail He’s dissecting the DNA of a micro-brewed India Pale Ale His beard is a thicket of secrets and dried-up sourdough starter He’s a self-appointed hops-and-barley-based martyr He’s talking 'bout the "mouth-feel" and the "piney, resinous finish" While my will to live begins to significantly diminish The percussion is skipping, the conversation is tripping Keith’s lower lip is currently and unfortunately dripping. [Chorus] Oh, save me from the citrus notes and the hazy, opaque hue Of a drink that tastes like a forest fire in a dirty hiking shoe (A dirty hiking shoe, what’s a man to do?) He’s citing the hop-schedule like it’s a matter of state And I’m just trying to remember why I thought this man was a mate. [Verse 2] [Rapid-fire Multisyllabic Cascade] It’s an ostentatious, vexatious, rather rapacious narration A systematic, problematic, hop-based education He’s articulating the carbonating, fluctuating levels of yeast While I’m contemplating a fast escaping to the belly of the beast He mentions "Sabro" and "Citra" and "Mosaic" and "Simcoe" I’m staring at the ceiling like a lobotomized nimrod Twenty Two Pounds for a flight of four tasters in a crate? I’d rather drink a puddle of lukewarm Bovril, mate. [Bridge] [Dissonant Instrumental Flourish] (The time signature shifts to Five-Four. The guitar becomes jagged and dissonant. A sudden, sharp snare crack.) Is it a nectar? Is it a sludge? A liquid manifestation of a middle-class grudge? The I-B-U is Ninety Nine, the ABV is Ten I’m never coming to this establishment ever again. [Verse 3] [Deadpan Swagger] Now he’s explaining the "lactosic sweetness" of a pastry stout Which looks like used motor oil and smells like a gouty snout He’s got a spreadsheet on his phone for every pint he’s ever had It’s not a hobby, Keith, it’s a cry for help to your dad I’m nodding and I’m blinking, I’m sinking into the floor As he starts a PowerPoint on the "Double Dry Hopped" lore I’m making a break for it, I’m faking a cardiac arrest Just to get some peace and quiet away from this lupulin pest. [Chorus] Oh, save me from the citrus notes and the hazy, opaque hue Of a drink that tastes like a forest fire in a dirty hiking shoe (A dirty hiking shoe, what’s a man to do?) He’s citing the hop-schedule like it’s a matter of state And I’m just trying to remember why I thought this man was a mate. [Outro] [Beat Fades, Only Jittery Guitar Remains] Twelve Pounds and Fifty Pence for a third of a pint. Served in a glass that looks like a chemistry beaker. I’m going to go find a pub that smells like old carpet and sells lukewarm Carling. (Backing vocals: The fermentation... the pretension... the hop-tension...) [End]
