I open the bottle and sit here alone
just trying to find words that rhyme.
But the words seem to pass, so I pick up my glass
and drink of the poets' wine.
All my tomorrows and yesterdays blend
as, today, I try to define.
I see troubles and woes in yes's and no's
when I drink of the poets' wine.
Thens and theres, with whens and wheres
are here in the fruit of the vine.
And, often, it seems, I find a new dream
when drinking the poets' wine.
Sometimes things in the poets' wine
bring feelings of pain and feelings divine.
So, I sit here all night trying to write
about what's in the poets' wine.
A teardrop or two, with memories of you,
insure that later I'll find
a tear-stained page from some other age
which was lost in the poets' wine.
Yet, there's no destiny in the thoughts I set free
with words I sometimes find.
So, when it's all through, there's just me and you
in the last of the poets' wine.