I spend far too much time,
writing about wine.
I spend far too much time,
needing it.

And I spend far too much time,
making words that rhyme.
And not enough time,
living it.

For the banks of the Tyne,
I sing for what's mine,
And all of the brine
it searches.

For the bells that do chime,
and green nails of lime,
You are all that I dare
dream about.

Though I spend too much time,
cleansing the grime,
And far too much time
cursing it.

And there's not enough time,
to live like a mime,
to only chronicle secrets
in silence.