I sometimes liken myself,
To a bottle of Chardonnay.
Not the expensive type,
Bit average, still OK.
In the mud, I’m not stuck.
Like a crammed in cork.
Don’t need a cork screw,
To get me to open up and talk.
My sense of humor,
Described as slightly dry.
And, not actually Brut,
I’m still bubbly, aren’t I?
I get along with,
The lightest of foods.
Crisp, bright and peachy,
Fit most all of your moods.
But, all may not prefer me.
That\'s OK. That\'s fine.
Desire rich and full bodied,
Like all of the red wines.
Swirl wine in their glass,
Check out the long legs.
Mine don’t run from the rim,
They’ll stand by you instead.
Red drinkers rather the type,
Sealed in the bottle for years.
Well, if the cork’s bad, it’s obvious,
Wine’s gone bad, my poor dear.
Yes, it’s all about the price.
Or, the region because.
Try a few sips of me,
You’ll still get a good buzz.
So, you prefer bottle of red,
In lieu of one of white.
Go, knock yourself out,
Your loss of appetite.