Grappa Sonnet Vi
O Grappa, goddess dregs of corpus grapes,
Distillate "digsetivo", whole must press,
Fond draught that spirits my carnal escape
From temperate gods, religions of less.
Your cruel "corretto" beguiled my hand
That morning to revel’s most fowl besmirch;
To suffer more grapes, you told me your plan
And the monks found me "morto" in church.
Turns out your proof laid me far less than quick
On the moors now banished to soiled quaffs,
Where claims I vanished in a pomace thick
Pisses my usurers quite rightly off.
Ah…to steep in more of her woody shoots
I do whilst eschewing the bastard brutes.
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