Roses are red,
Wine is red too,
Poems are hard,
Wine!
(Unknown)

There once was a man who loved vino,
But couldn’t afford a good pinot,
But he could once a year,
Make a gallon appear,
For he knew the grapes would regrow.
(by Dan Mather)

Once upon a drunken day,
With wine I washed my cares away,
Two bottles down,
Cheered up my frown,
But tomorrow I’m going to pay.
(by Jake Tipler)

Bordering a sun drenched lake,
Are vines and posts and wires and stakes,
Are tractors stacked with unwieldly gear,
That one uses only once a year,
Are hills and flats so stunningly stacked,
With houses of the rich and fat,
Betwixt these affluent abodes,
We work our hands down to the bones,
To make a wine truely worlds apart,
In the name of our science/art.
(by Dan Mather)

The cats pee, and gooseberry,
Are pungent smells that worry me,
But still they persist,
Though one tries to resist,
To bottle the plonk,
Made from Sauvignon Blanc.
The wine is tart, it’s acids sharp,
And after a glass it burns my heart,
I cry and I cough,
And plead that they stop,
Though my protests are thorough,
Nothing stops bloody Marlborough.
(By Jake Tipler)

Of all the wines that i’ve made,
There’s one that personifies today.
It’s heavy, it’s red, It’ll put you to bed,
It is of course, Sauvignon, Cabernet.
(By Dan Mather)

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