Here comes that grape-array peeling peeling—can’t win.
I’m ripping skins instead of drinking big Zins.
It’s turning out to be a glum day;
I’m yearning now to have a Mumm day.
So, I’m feeling blue;
there’s no reason to cheer.
Therefore, I’m gonna just whine.

Here comes that grape-array peeling peeling—no Zin!
I yank ’em out and peel ’em—straight from the bin.
Although I’m living in a wine world,
it’s a process-what’s-on-the-vines world.
I can’t be happy
living here this way,
with grape arrays I have to flay.

Musty pouring prize—
soon it’s gonna be fined.
But I just peel…
no chance to imbibe it.

Wish someone would bestow
a Rhône or a Bordeaux
to this peeling guy.
But I’m stuck in a dry world.

Here comes that grape-array peeling again!
“Ich bin,” as Deutsch Zin-drinkers might bitch, “trocken!”*
Although I’m living in a wine world,
for me, it’s a kvetch and whine world.
I’d be quite happy,
I have gotta say
with a mediocre Gamay.