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Ode to my hop vines

Apologia:  Even my dog can forgive me this doggerel on account of how it's NB:TB's poetry inaugural; if you're rolling your eyes instead of trimming your side shoots back, get thee out to your hopyard and cut me some slack. 

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I. Liberty Now you are six, my tetraploid Mittelfrüh hybrid chicks. We brewed Bock and CAP with the crop of aught-nine; This year I got you a longer horizontal run of twine. And late in the summer when your cones hang heavy I shall be sitting under you, nursing a big cold bevvy.

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II. Centennial "Alley-hop" men have named you; despite the snowplow, you've survived. Wet-hop IPAs have you brew'd, of which to drink, friends've connived. Beer is eternal, yet each glass but a dream, suffused with homegrown ass-kicking cohumulone supreme.

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III. Horizon The Horizon seems far off and obscure; it's just barely sent up its shoots. Patience and dirt and sheep manure went down that hole with its roots. I'm banking on bitterness neutral and pure, I don't want to have to brew gruits.