I sit upon a throne of wine glasses
That bobs, a cork, through seas of sweet Merlot;
And as I sail, the ghost of time passes
Right by my purple’d lips as on I go.
The bottom of the bottle’s an anchor
That sinks me to a dreadful, drunkless muck;
When ruby’s devoid, in flushes rancor
That grips me when there’s nigh a drop to suck.
So please, my sweet and sleepy grape-born juice,
I’ll write to thee, much like the odes of Horace,
Until thou snip my dry lethargy loose
And wrap me in thy silken, velvet chorus.
And not again ’till then shall I feel fine
When I doth fill myself with thee, red wine.

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