Sorachi was its name, the hop in the beer. Ace was his name, the little baby, my son.
A hop content on confusion. A heart intent on fusion.
The hop divides, but the baby unites.
Disagreement. Enjoyment. The bizarre. Overwhelming joy.
The hop and the baby.
They’re both Ace.
In a stout it’s dark and mysterious. In the dark he’s sleepy and mischievous.
He’s just Ace. But not Sorachi.
Maybe you love Sorachi, maybe you love Ace.
Or maybe you love both, Sorachi and Ace.