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On Wine


Though I may scent black cherry,

Violets or truffles in the nose,

Make my companions weary

Praising the bullís blood that I chose,

Though it courses through my heart

And makes me brave (but rarely true),

And is the consummated art

Of all that tastebuds can construe,

Though I forget, I wonít deny:

The peroration to all this,

When the radiant glass is dry,

Is one expensive piss.


Suzanne Doyle



© 1992 Suzanne J. Doyle.  Used by permission.


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