XCIX: The Seven Days of July: vi

If ever one could know as sweet a draught

as cold root beer beneath the blazing Sun,

surrounded left and right, and fore and aft

by festival attendees out for fun,

if ever one could match that sole delight,

I’d pay for it in currencies unknown;

for root beer underneath a flying kite

is more than all that one can ever own.

Imbibed by that dark nectar in that place,

restored, in but a moment, with the joy

that ever I have known upon my face,

that ever I possessed when still a boy.

The liquor that I’ll keep both near and dear

will always be that ale they call root beer.