In the tree zone of Torino
In a dirty dive bar, drinking,
Sits the legend, Bode Miller.
Sits the legend, quaffing cold ones.
Should you ask me
Whats his poison?
Was it lager, light in color
Made with hops from hardy farmlands,
Made with flocculating yeast scum?
Was it ale, as dark as twilight,
Made with first-rate malted barley,
Head like
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