by Danny "Don Juan" Henrey
When Bacchus’ tootsies tread the pinot mount,
And Montrachet, her pearls shine golden-bright,
Brits, Nips and Switzers worship at the fount,
And cram their Bentleys with rare cases tight.
From Côtes to Hauts the peasant pickers range:
The foreman-Doge with whip holds them in thrall;
Their sweaty backs he stripes with motifs strange—
In French the cry goes up, "Backs to ze wall!"
In distant lands, the Shamen blows his rent
On Richebourg dark and deep, to match his mood:
Two hundred bucks the bot—as boy of rent—
’Tis much the same: in either case you’re screwed.
Upon the parapets of Castel’ Brenti,
Lord Dan de B a glass of Meursault swills:
"Much beloved," quoth he, "of the cognoscenti,"
And chases he his scoff with liver pills.
Not far, Morticia ’scapes from daylight toil,
And opes a brooding Chambertin anon;
For supper, she a tender child will boil—
Sprog au Chambertin—oui, c’est très, très bon!
So now the motley four united are
In sunny southern California:
Rare pleasures of the table there are spread—
Some hot, some cold, some others barely dead.
So pray, afore we on this feast to gorge,
The toast’s to us, Lords B. and Nuits-St.-Georges!