My vines are green with glorious fruit—
on them it is stored.
We’ll be trampling out the vintage;
weeks later, it will be poured.
We won’t doom it with botrytis;
a Grand Cru is our reward.
The juice is bubbling on.

Pour me, pour me when it’s bottled;
by then my thirst won’t be throttled.
Bobbing will be my neck’s wattle.
The juice is bubbling on.

There’s a sweet brix that will respire
when the yeast action is amped.
If in our work we should falter,
customers will have decamped.
But our winemaker’s from heaven,
says the tattoo that is stamped
in hues upon his arm.

Pour me, pour me when it’s bottled ;
by then my thirst won’t be throttled.
Pour me a big glass, but not till
The juice bubbling is done.

The crop: Soon we will have crushed it,
though we will not use our feet.
But perhaps if we were Italian,
this process would be meet.*
We use machines for grape trampling…
much cleaner and more neat.
Our shoes we can keep on.

Pour me, pour me when it’s bottled ;
by then my thirst won’t be throttled.
Bottle is what I will coddle.
I’ll sure have drunk a lot.

With the juice I will be filling
as I taste it on the lees.
before the time comes to put it
to our lips when it’s ready.
We do not make it for holy use—
that stuff’s nearly taste-free…
alcohol’s mostly gone.

Pour me, pour me when it’s bottled ;
by then my thirst won’t be throttled.
Pour me a big glass, but not till
the label’s been slapped on.