the triplet born last

I'm an empty Lwów raspberry lager on a Monday night, one of three on the table, the triplet born last. I'm strong, 8% alc, which is a lot for a beer, but I'm sweet because as much as I love the alcohol I still can't handle the bitterness. I'm never alone; I always follow my triplets, and I'm always follow by a shot or two. I'm Polish, but I was Ukrainian once, and some think I'll be Ukrainian again. Russia and Germany circle me like vultures, but country name doesn't matter anymore. I'm from land fertilized with blood. I grew up fermenting, my cap screwed shut, nothing to be let out. I keep the pain in carbonation. People forgot about Central Europe. I help them remember. I can take them far away, to buildings and cities and people who don't exist anymore. I think that's important. I think it's my purpose. But I can be stupid sometimes. I can make you dance on a wet street until you fall on your ass. I can make you run around a bus stop screaming you're Batman. And I can be sexy, swaying hips and kisses on the neck. I can make you think anything's a good idea with the lights off. Sometimes, I can make you happy, make you hum Beatles songs in the kitchen when you're making pasta. The happy turns sad real fast.

I'm anxious, crying condensation, my pretty labeled shredded off my body. This is what it tells you.