While Moira stinted not on Jacob's Creek

Red wine was a fine art I never mastered

That Saturday night was an epic session

We strode naked in her garden, plastered

 

My memory of events is somewhat vague

A thorn ripped the seat of my underpants

Then I was rolling about the grass, stinking

Of cat-shit, eaten alive by nocturnal ants

 

Moira was concerned about a hedgehog

I'd squashed it when jumping from a tree

She roamed about whooping and yelling

Breasts basking in the moonlight, free

 

The neighbours must have complained

For several policemen appeared in a van

One said he'd seen stranger things but

Midnight was not the time to get a tan

 

From my cell I could hear Moira singing

My head was banging like a bass drum

I wished I'd stayed home, forgotten Moira

For I was always more amenable to rum

 

A week later and we're both on the wagon

Devouring ancient box-sets as if in a trance

Yet Moira's getting scared about her D T's

It's time to give red wine a second chance