Once upon a midnight dreary, while I poured wine, white and willing,
Over many a quaint and curious bottle of budget vine,
While I typed, neatly noting, suddenly there came a slurping,
As of someone loudly drinking, drinking on my backyard porch.
“‘Tis some Baptist,” I muttered, “drinking on my backyard porch;
Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was the Ravenswood Vintner,
And each separate rolling cork wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the pouring; vainly I had sipped the potion
From my cellar surcease of longing, longing for the golden liquor.
For the rare and radiant beverage whom the angels name Chardonnay,
Imbibed here forevermore.
And the silken buttered enticing aroma of each sunlit sip
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic flavors never drunk before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
“‘Tis some Baptist entreating entrance at my backyard door,
Some late teetotaler entreating entrance at my backyard door.
This is some damn good Ravenswood, and nothing more.”