Another Pint

I must relent. I must admit it’s strange—
exceeding strange—to give a pint of blood
as greeting card, for nothing in exchange,
and stop. Although you fear the crimson flood,
a pint is what you get, and nothing more.
So quaff it, since you’ll like it or you won’t.
You either take a draught and hit the floor,
and say you want it stronger, when you don’t,
or gag at the aroma of the hops
and sate instead on sugar and a wedge,
or pound it, dredge the last few tannic drops
indiff’rent, shrug, and say, “It kills the edge.”
My blood is not a holy sacrament.
It just diverts the otherwise hell-bent.