Harry Graham (24)

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Harry Graham: Wine

The Connoisseur may laud liqueur
   (As made by monks in cloisters)
Or rave about the velvet stout
   That's used to wash down oysters;
Such drinks are not for me or mine,
The only drink I need is WINE!

The haggis-ridden Scot may bid
  For whiskey (with a kilt on);
The men of Wales baptize with ales
   Each mute but glorious Stilton;
But when off cheese or tripe I dine
My single beverage is WINE!
 
Though 'twould appear that Lager beer
   Possesses far more finesse
(And much more gas) than, say, a Bass,
   A Worthington or Guinness,
The only product of the Rhine
That I am keen about is WINE.

Though brandy may, so people say,
   Be termed the drink for heroes,
And for one's aunt a Crême de Menthe
   Seems popular at Ciro's,
At peppermint I draw the line,
The nectar of the gods was WINE!

The old sea-dog must have his grog,
   When on the briny ocean,
And dukes on yachts use rum in tots
   As a laryngean lotion;
But when I sail across the brine
I never touch a thing but WINE.

In cocktail bars the sons of Mars
   Call loudly for a Cointreau,
To stand their pals (or Chorus Gals
   Selected from the frointreau!).
I hate the taste of turpentine,
And so I call instead for WINE.

Yes, give me port (the vintage sort),
   Champagne and hock and claret
And e'en Moselle, and I shall dwell
   Contented in a garret.
In exile I would never pine
If I were well supplied with WINE.

I would not grudge a ten-mile trudge
   From Palma to Tampico
If at the end I found a blend
   Brewed by the widowed Clicquot.
(But Mexico, so I opine,
Has never been renowned for WINE.)

I'd walk from Dan to Askalan,
   From Beershaba to Shechem,
Could I be sure I'd thus procure
   A flask of Château-Yquem.
(But I'm afraid that Palestine
Is not the home of vintage WINE.)

Then bring me wine, blest anodyne
   That makes men care-forgetful
Till human swine grow quite benign,
    Than porcupines less fretful.
No pow'r divine can so refine
The Phillistine as that of WINE.

So let's combine before its shrine
   To sing with vinous unction,
Ere we recline upon the spine,
   And wits decline to function,
While still, in fine, we can design
Some eight or nine new rhymes to WINE!