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Why poets wax so lyrical
Of nectar from the spherical
Fruits of the vine declared divine
(In other words: plonk, vino, wine)
Is something of a mystery,
Perhaps a fluke of history.
It’s just a product squashed by feet
Or when a slip, an ample seat,
Then left alone to foam and stew
And form in time a fruity brew
With bubbles as the yeast ferments
To make the stuff the brain dements.
It’s an IQ reversing drink –
The more you quaff the less you think.