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Though wines are wet, I like mine dry,
for corks are Karma I decry.
Those crumbly, shy agoraphobes
like squatters fought against my probes.
But no more flotsam-corkscrewed-bits;
adieu, demented ,twisted bits.
Henceforth, from wallet, bag or jacket,
I’ll premiere a foil-lined packet.
Amused, she’ll tease with “Qu’est ce que c’est?”
And I’ll confess: “It’s Chardonnay.”

The packet’s contents, tried and true,
I’ll tap into a glass, or two,
then add 5 ounces water, cold,
and marvel at the color–gold.
For vino red–sans cork–I’ll say:
Voilà! A bawdy Beaujolais.”
“But my taste runs to Pinot, dear.”
“Of course. . . that, too, is right in . . . here.”
And if she wants a fine champagne?
Why, I’ll add seltzer for my dame.