Burgundy, by Amory McKeever

Twas harrowed in the fall,
and sprouted in the spring
Surely the center of it all,
such a spoiled little thing
Now mash under his feet,
until it becomes a pulp
Never will it taste complete
Still we gulp, gulp, gulp
and stumble drunkenly along
making senseless talk
and singing worthless songs
yet claim we walked the walk

So take a little swill

this is better than an pill

to adjust the way you feel

I promise the good Lord will distill

this Burgundy

More important we should know,
like chardonnay before the wine
That grapes are meant to grow,
not wilt along the vine
Come rain or come shine,
the farmer plants a new sprout
With the patience heaven refined,
by our work we wore him out

Then wrenched his tired hands
broken calloused over skin
Whom pulled the soil over man
To sow the seeds again

So take a little swill

this is better than a pill

to adjust the way you feel

I promise the good Lord will distill

this Burgundy

And again and again no more,
will he try to make it right
The most bitter Chablis to pour,
is the one that ends a life

Has our spirit lost its flavor?

Have we spilled away his favor?

What will he cork and cask,
If it's all of rotten fruit?

Not even worthy of a flask

tucked into Satan's boot

So take a little swill

this is better than a pill

to adjust the way you feel

I promise the good Lord will distill

this Burgundy