Guinness. Dear god almighty, Guinness. I have drank her in local London boozers and drank her in the States' Disneyland renditions of publand Brittania. I have drank her in the sweaty hovels of South Africa. And drank her in the expat havens of Central America. Her Royal Blackness. She soothes like no other. My eternal temptress. I may have prolonged flings with a certain IPA. Even deep and tempestuous affairs with a local brew pub ingenue. But it is she. Always she. It is her creamy nitrogen infused breast where I forever return to nurse my soul. And yet, strangely, I have no songs which call her by name. Perhaps her liquid is simply too sacred. Perhaps it is akin to the reverence with which the Finns hold the mighty bear. In ancient Finnish lore, bears were so sacred, you could not call them by name. And so they coined mystic monikers for the great beast. "Mead Paw" being one of the most common, and certainly my most favorite. And yes, should you wonder, I have drank my sweet dark lady in Finland as well. Maybe I will never find the words for her. Or maybe, my soul is just quietly waiting. Soaking in another round of her perfect splendor, preparing to spill forth the greatest song of Guinness ever written in a Shane MacGowen-esque torrent of borderline blackout poetry. I'm not sure. The subject requires further reflection. I think I'll pour myself another pint and ruminate on it a bit.