Cider made from apples dry
Cannot touch the mellow stance
Nor begin to feel the depth, which I
may gaze and flow in merry dance

 

When red grape bleeds into my mouth
sinking, tickling my tonsils keen
I cannot be but in pure ease
My mind blurs in a haze serene

 

Hark!  Shiraz brings a gush of spice
And fruit and smoke and peppers pure
A bold perfection can but entice;
The weekend's dusk is soft allure