Stout

In the dim‑lit tavern, a pint of stout waits,
Its midnight hue a cloak of roasted barley fate.
Silky as a woolen jumper on a Yorkshire morn,
It whispers of oak, of coffee, of winter’s dawn.
Stout‑hearted drinkers raise their glasses, bold and true,
To the sturdy brew that steadies the soul through.