STOUT

Some have predicted the guaranteed end

The fall of all commerce a skid on the bend

One thing that fills me with trouble and doubt

Is the future of Beamish and Crawford the stout



The blackest of black cold over the bar

Inebriates the boys from near and far

A brewing tradition for five hundred years

The dutchman he cometh wielding his tears



Those of integrity of great global success

Pull back from the brink clean up this mess

A sound of a death bell ringing out from afar

It's the sound of conclusion last orders at the bar