And when the eternal optimist finds himself lapping wine from the bottom of the barrel, who then shall crush his sour grapes?


Who will be the vine he holds onto?


Who will be the cup to hold the out pouring of his soul?


And will it be too late?

For the winter is setting in and the frost has begun to steal the summers color already.

And when the bottle is empty.


And the boards of the barrel ****** dry, we will raise our glasses to the eternal optimist.

Who once was drunk on love.


But now is drunk on time.