Night Owl, my friend, my only disciple,
You are a perceptive seer,
I enjoyed the way you mentioned,
The people I hold dear.
Your story was a work of art,
An enjoyable story well told,
You even worked in The Poetry Bastards,
An that was truly bold.                                                    

But being a PB has its down sides,
This you must know well,
For our irreverence and outspokeness,
Will land the group in Hell.
I see with interest down the page,
That Shadow's in this business,
You offered to bring us both a beer,
And he will bring the Guiness.
This sounds like quite a laugh,
The stuff of all good dreams,
But, restrain those rampant equines,
For it's not all that it seems.                                                    

The ale in Hell cannot be good,
That would defeat the purpose,
To get an ale you must buy it,
With no money for the purchase.
To buy a beer you must pay,
For it using "in kind",
It involves a ten foot demon,
And your pasty behind.
Then when you've scored some cash,
You go up to the bar,
You're surrounded by mobs of tourists,
Who've travelled in their car,
For days and days to get to Hell,
To them you must talk,
They are the only patrons there,
And out you cannot walk.
The barman sneers at your request,
A look that is contrite,
He sneers again and says to you,
"All we've got is Super Lite."
With sorrow you stare at your beer,
It's far from heaven sent,
The alcoholic content approximates,
One hundredth of one percent.
There's no head upon this brew,
The Devil's seen to that,
He's made it a tepid temperature too,
As well as being flat.
You smile grimly and take a swig,
The glass it gives you cuts,
You need something to go with this,
But the barman's taken the nuts.                                                    

So, my fine, feathered friend,
And Shadow too,
I think that we should investigate,
Making our own home brew.                                                    

Cheers from the Land of Oz