Spoken:
You put too much wine down your mouth, you’re drunk,
and the morning after, you’ll be sorry,
with puke spewing from your gums and your snout.
And the word “good” will not come close
to describing how you’re gonna feel.
Your face might look like a turnip that’s green—
’specially if you drink a gross vintage,
lousy gross vintage.
So you shouldn’t snare more than your share.
It’s even better, believe me, to drink what won’t mess you up.
Just think of me as your sommelier.
Listen—you’ll be glad that you heeded,
and you’ll feel alright.

Sung:
Don’t know about you, but on certain kinds of wine I ain’t too keen…
not worth putting in a glass to swirl…
in the oenophile hall of shame.
Gross sap that’s jammy, with mouthfeel dank and clammy,
and the finish is awfully lame.
The tannins are camouflaged; it’s got a taste rank.
I don’t want to drink it.

When you prepare for supper time, saunter over to the wine rack;
pick something that’s not a gross vintage,
and get yourself ready to throw some back.
Gross glass that’s jammy has mouthfeel slack and clammy,
and an excess of RS* remains.
Likely didn’t leave it long enough in the main tank.
You’ll wretch if your taste in wine is more European.
I say, “Merci” when addressing it.

Show no icky gross vintage to me.

I’m happy to take a nice Rhône out;
the pulled cork makes a “smack.”
All the other stuff’s fit for
is pouring out of the glass to nourish the grass.
No glassful hand me, nearly as sweet as candy
fashioned into the shape of a cane.
And my palate will be hurting from this grape sap.

So, stock no icky gross vintage, please, for me,
because I don’t need to ingest it.
Stock none of it!