“Oak notes, yes.” I’m the grape pretender,
Pretending I know my wines well.
An oeno-dunce, I fake it a bunch.
My Rhône-speak is blown smoke but swell.

Oh-oh, yes, I’m the grape pretender;
I sniff and swirl a glass of Rhône.
I play the game of knowing the name
Of each and every Bordeaux clone.

My spiel is unreal, vineyard make-believe
With veal as my meal, it’s sweet Riesling appeals.

Yes, I’m the grape pretender,
Just quaffing my way around town.
At wineries in my fineries,
I’m dressing up, never down.

Unreal what I deal out—just make-believe;
This spiel will appeal to cliques that in I reel.

Yes, I’m the grape pretender,
Just quaffing my way around town.
It’s beer for me when no one can see—
My share, and more, chugging down.
Pretending, like most vintage clowns.