Response to a Request for an Extemporaneous Poem on Wine

The wine of life
Is not the strife
That fills the cups of war.

Flying sandals kicked off vandals
Are not the same (in fact they’re vain)
Compared with the lust that the winds blow in gust
Into shoeless lovers that discover
What is sweeter than sweet and hotter than heat
And not poured in cups to drink
But all the same we cannot think
To call it anything but wine.

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This entry was posted in Other.

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