Cider has the quality of looking just the same going in as it does coming out.
The wild white rose is cankered Along the Vale of Lugg
There is poison in the tankard, There’s murder in the mug;
Through all the pleasant valleys Where stand the palefaced kine
Men raise the devil’s chalice And drink this bitter wine.
Unspeakable carouses That shame the summer sky
Take place in little houses That look towards the Wye;
And near the Radnor border And the dark hill of Wales
Beelzebub is warder And sorcery prevails.
For spite of church and chapel Ungodly folk there be
Who pluck the cider apple From the cider apple tree,
And sqeeze it in their presses Until the juice runs out,
At various addresses That no one knows about.
And maddened by the orgies Of that unholy brew
They slit each other’s gorges From one a.m. till two.
Till Ledbury is a shambles And in the dirt and mud
Where Leominster sits and gambles The dice are stained with blood.
But still, if strength suffices Before my day is done,
I’ll go and share the vices Of Clungunford and Clun,
But watch the red sun sinking Across the March again
And join the secret drinking Of outlaws at Presteign.
Beware of farmhouse cider.
- Cider Reviews 7/29/2013 (cidernation.wordpress.com)