Just about a beer ago
I set out for a Rhône,
seeking to tame that pour gloom,
lookin’ for one not so grown.
Drinks got bad and drinks got worse
in the oak-paneled room.
Close t’ port, stuck with old vines again!

Rhône, Zin, not a great round—
There wasn’t one now up to soak.
High in tannins, too—
must be seven years in oak.
Slammed down my glass, said “Honey,
why can’t you make amends?!”
Oh, snort! stuck with old vines again!

Demand for the magnums, keen. Sec (dry), though, not the way.
Some fare approached confection—candy/brandy, I’d say.
I laid my glass down, none-of-wines fan. . .
Looks like I’ll pan the slew.
So bored, stuck with old vines again!

Then I gave a nasty holler: “I’d prefer beer that’s skunk
or even some Gallo Rosé to that which I’ve just drunk!”
I’m gonna go, a batch drain of pale ale Indian.

Go forth, and fuck these old-vines. . .stoppin’.
Go gorge and suck a bowl dry. . . hop in.