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Summer Wine
The
sunshine relentlessly
packs
the terroir into you,
summer stuff grabs by the heart -
as if you might be picked up
this night.
Ah,
that maddening blend,
so ripe in your summer loins -
the
skin, the flesh and the seed...
man!, put
your shades on, relax;
or mature.
'Cause that naked blooming chick
of
phylloxera smirks there,
behind an ancient drunk thought -
spray the bitch cold: she's a harvest
killer.
And now get a tan and grow,
so
that when the tasting comes,
the judge can take just one sip,
gurgle you ways and declare:
"Let's think…"
…and then, with a proper gulp,
after
long hesitation:
maybe note "Definitely
no Vosne-Romanée, but – well,
drinkable."
