I know that I shall never think
A poem lovely as a drink.
A drink whose luscious taste presents
High praise to sweet earth’s nutrients;
For a drink that brings on thoughts divine,
You can n’er go past a good red wine;
A drink that may in summer bring
A maiden to your side, to sing.
Now, on a bosom, my head’s content;
The pillow of choice for the rhyming gent.
Poems are made by fools like moi,
But a damn fine wine is a Pinot noir.
Apologies to Joyce Kilmer.