Look at this mess
This baggage
Is all I’ve left
My portion
Hard pressed
I have fermented
Nonetheless

Aged and seasoned
Blemishes and lesions
Yet my austerity
She finds
Somehow pleasing
I seek no reason
That would surely
Be treason

She gets drunk
And high
On me oh my
I get low
Fast but slow
We are of one soul
And now you know
Fermented wine
From years ago!