Cantillon, Cantillon (You’re so delicious)

I think I Cantillon, therefore I can.
What tricks belie your layered lambics?
The guzzled gueuze that goes so quick?
With sours of cherries, grapes and raspberries.
A perfectly balanced lot, like your teetering tin man, a teetotaler not!

Cantillon, our fermenter mentor, our tormentor.
Spiders in webs, wed beside barrel heads. Spying on flies.
So is this where spontaneous souring secrets lie?
Or in the wood beams, near the coolship tun?
(Is there no health department in Belgium?)
I’ve prayed tell us, what games, will say the rows of
Rosé de Gambrinus, are played?

Forget it. A sip of Lou Pepe made with Schaerbeekse,
a Zwanze, a Kriek, a Framboise. A fanboy am moi.
An ode to an oude gueuze of 2006.
What would I owe to taste the brett in that mix … again?
So much to gain.
I think I Cantillon, therefore I can.