‘Twas ages past and moonbeams last,
Your lips convened with mine,
And overthrown from gilded throne,
My heart had soured to wine,
It seeped into my sensory,
In crimson-scarlet hue,
With vineyard eyes poised to the skies,
My thoughts returned to you,
And, skin a midnight burgundy,
I wished upon a star,
That not for thrill, you’d love me still,
This man of pinot noir,
But as I went to kiss you,
I stood helpless and agape,
For though my lips proved strong with spirit,
Yours remained of grape
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