Wine Whine

The wine snob swirls, sniffs and sips the item,
Thoughtful-faced till it’s inside him,
While we (the peasants) fake knowing stance,
Waiting impatiently for our chance,
Hardly caring if it’s white, pink or red –
As long as it’s plentiful and we’re soon fed.

The “wine snob” (we learn) is called a sommelier
As he passes us brie crepes paired up with a chardonnay,
Then sushi with sake, and shiraz from “Down Under”
With cutlets of lamb – Oh Lord, it’s a wonder!!!
Bring on the pheasant with pinot noir!
Enlightenment strikes us, awakened we are!!

So consider the food when removing the cork:
A wine is much better when used with a fork.

The Boy That I Live With

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The boy that I live with is younger than me
(Not sixty-four like ex-Beetle Paul McCartney).
This boy that I live with plays with pals at the gym
Who are younger than he but no stronger of limb.
My boy shoots and he rebounds with obvious zeal,
Especially loving to score off a steal,
Recounting his triumphs to me over dinner,
As if no glory is greater than being a winner
At these lunch-hour matches of the pot-bellied and paunchy.
(His car contains gym socks incredibly raunchy).
I listen with patience and with my old boy concur:
He is swift, sly and speedy – a better play-maker for sure
Than those half his age dwelling on their past glories
(Not one among them has yet entered his forties),
But in spite of my teasing and half-masked amusement,
I’m impressed and I’m proud of my elderly gent.
He’s muscled, he’s spry, he’s joyful, he’s great,
And more boys should be youthful at age fifty-eight!

The Rap of the Retired Wizard

In contemplation of my leisurely situation,
My daily recreation,
Tasks crossed off, the elimination
Of what appears to be work to the rest of the nation.

Threw ‘way my bizness skirt
Got a SPF 45 sunblock shirt
Now I’m workin’ in the breeze and diggin’ dirt
Till my bones get numb and my muscles hurt.

Is this fun or is this toil,
This playin’ with seeds and weeds and soil,
Sniffin’ manure without recoil,
Huntin’ down pests like Conan Doyle?

Then August comes an’ it’s time to harvest,
Can it, freeze it, dry it an’ all the rest,
Obsessed more than blessed would be my guess,
Jungle-hot kitchen makin’ me depressed.

So am I out to pasture, washed up, retired;
Or recreating as desired?
And how in hell did it transpire
That a wizard became a gardener, I inquire.