Cheers, this round is on me, says Santa


‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the ‘hood

Nobody was stirring, maybe nobody could;

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care

In hope that the brewmaster soon would be there

And the drinkers nestled all warm in their snugs

Dreaming of cask fermented suds

And me at the bar with my beer nearing empty

Wondering what next might possibly tempt me

When outside the pub there arose such a clatter

I put down my pint to see what was the matter

When what to my wandering eye should appear

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer;

‘Twas St. Nick himself, the one and the same

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

“Now, Doomba! Now, Adnams! Now, Od Speckled Hen

On, Camden ! On, Meantime! On Three Wise Men!

On his back was a sack bulging with brews

All casque mark of course and CAMRA approved

And I heard him exclaim, while stuffing stockings with glee,

“Whatever your pleasure, the next round’s on me!

And he roared as the reindeer soared out of sight

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

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