Callow Bung-Pluggers

When I drink a Rhone,
It has to taste right. . .
Mouthfeel of earth and summer
Without too much tannic bite.
Its softness then mingled
With unexpected thrills.

In September is
When we start to spill
Juice as we crush now
Grapes we've pulled off the hills.
We mustn't prematurely
Take this Rhone from the fermentation barrel
And then bottle it, full of lees.

Callow bung-pluggers,
It's too soon to start.
Wait till the bubbles are few
It's not time to put it in bottles airtight.
This must is just too new.

So wait, bung-pluggers, it's not time to start;
The caves are just getting cool.
Clinging vines must you be until it's right—
This must is still like gruel.

I know how it feels to put in those cork seals.
It's a skill that don't come by chance.
But you must take your time; it cannot be toute de suite;
I learned how to do it in France.

Don't try, bung-pluggers, whatever you do
Don't try to cork yet this Rhone.
Excess fermentation will make it take flight—
Through the air it'll be blown.

The caves, bung-pluggers, so cool and so dark
The caves for the grapes that we grew.
Moisture clings to these walls, with no sunlight,
This must is just too new.

I know how it feels to put in those cork seals.
It's a skill that don't come by chance.
But you must take your time; it cannot be toute de suite;
I learned how to do it in France.

Don't try, bung-pluggers, whatever you do
Don't try to cork yet this Rhone.
Excess fermentation will make it take flight—
Through the air it'll be blown.