A skin of leather, rough and old,

a paper crinkled thousand-fold,

a dusty room, the scent of pine,

would you believe that I mean wine?


A scent of herbs and tar and rose,

a land of fog still in your nose,

a score of ninety-nine point nine,

yet, there is so much more to wine.


A berry colour, dark and red,

a million words all left unsaid,

for they seem hard now to combine,

I might have had a little too much wine …


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