The heady scent, 
Of a long cold pint.
That first sip, 
Ahhhh.
I can feel it, 
Coursing through my veins.
As the glass, 
Slowly empties, 
I cannot help but mourn, 
For as much as I would love, 
Another healing brew, 
I know I mustn't, 
For early I must rise.
So I slowly leave the bar, 
and something in me dies.                
Well you get the sympathy vote,9, from me. Did you have a cold when you wrote the last line?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I'll add my nine to his... Which reminds me I have an appointment with one on thursday; -) Amicalement votre Ronberge