To many pints1 my fist got to grab
On this road of my colourful journey
Guess many of my pints merrily emptied,
Guess it has been bitter to swallow.
From every pint traces are left on the table
And they store many memories too.
I know my pint's traces myself.
Many emptied in the company of friends,
Joyous pictures traveled on the foam.
Many memories are cold and miserable,
When sadness closed my mouth from singing.
If a grey trace could be left from a pint,
It's better to pay the bill and go away.
I know my pint's traces myself.
For sure in my pint's foaming there has glittered
often a memory so warm and caring.
The memory of a pint like that is immortal,
I'm feeling good then, if someone.
The trace of my pint must be pleasant then.
It doesn't blame, but makes the mind tender.
I know my pint's traces myself.
In the roadhouses of life you get used to changing
The pint might look tempting.
Though it is fresh and foaming,
You might find the dregs under your tongue.
The trace on the table announces me that,
That the disappointment hit is quite large.
I know my pint's traces myself.
But I empty my pint, though I can't
guess the quality of the foam always.
Joy might play as foam on the pint,
The pint doesn't weight on the fist then.
If my pint brings a dark trace on the table,
A new pint might create a bright one already.
I know my pint's traces myself.
1. or beer steins