Pour Minerva

Poor Minerva, jewel bright,
Pour me Crown, bring forth the light.
In the high desert, you’re the spark,
Dry as gulch, yet leave your mark.

Blessed be the smoke-filled air,
We raise our glass in fervent prayer.
Virginny City, let it be said,
Shall be painted a vibrant red.

So poor you, Minerva dear,
With every shot, we hold you near.
A saintly presence, strong and true,
In every glass, we find our due.