Monstrous metal intestine, hefty
on a bed of bricks, designed to convey drab
must, your ample-bowelled cucurbit (alchemy
from Memphis transmuted through the Arab)
part modern magic, part ancient ritual.
Swan's neck choked with vapour, copper balloons
flushed, you twice refine that water, your coil
a snaking serpentine through cool.
By these colossal means, subtlety:
steady drops of pure clear condensate;
from your alembic gut a delicacy
to satisfy the most discerning palate.
The brewers set aside the angels' share
of eau de vie. And this is only fair.
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