Wheat Face.
Wheat Face Pale Ale Leaves a sweat-trickled trail down my spine in the morning, And I’ve got half a lime between my thighs, deadpan, looking me back in the eyes. I woke up under a barrel. A wooden one with a wheat coloured tap at the bottom. I’m a tiny soaked seed, disoriented, face full of fermentation. Flick off the lime-intruder, who falls between an empty beer bottle and a coffee brewer. Slow-paced awakening, I’m the pea-pod sized Wheat Face, the everybody-likes-me crusty bacon bit. Not provoked, just sleepy, No drink in hand, just a hundred and one servings of cheeky. I was tired, who can blame me? Sat down under my barrel, facing the wedged citrus slice, waiting for a human to come save me.