Sunday, June 25, 2006

I - Vines


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.
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