I drink her when she’s pretty,
Glowing ruby, smooth, she’s deathly bloody,
In my home or in a new and starry city.
In winters they sweeten her for me,
In her soulful depths I see the apples float,
I taste luscious cherries right off the tree.
A richness that couldn’t dissatisfy,
She sometimes froths and sparkles,
And she can be moody: earthy, dry.
I don’t discriminate, though,
I like her best when she’s pure,
The fruit and bubbles are just for show.
Now I sit, my glass shaken and stirred,
So let me ask this of the world,
(And be honest with your word):
Is it wrong that I well know,
After a day’s long and trying hours,
All I need and want is her comforting scarlet glow?