24 December 2012
T'was the night before Christmas, when all through the brewhouseNot a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.The stockings were hung by the coppers with care,In hopes that the Neames soon would be there.
The beers were nestled all snug in their kegs,While visions of strong ales danced in our heads.And staff in their cellars no casks to tap,Had just settled their brains for a long winter’s nap.
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