Poem - A South African Shiraz, and Chinese

A South African Shiraz, and Chinese When I was twenty – fiveI couldn’t strain fermented grapesthrough the spacesbetween my teeth.Oh, I’d make slurping noises,and try to sound sophisticatedbut the fact remains:to appreciate ones drink,a man must mature;specifically me.So I sip on mySouth African wine,I let its flavor flood me.This is a secretthat youngsters don’t know,the flavor of good alcoholis not tasted on the tongue,nor in the throat.The flavor of good wine is only tasted in the brain,and accented in the nose.With this young shirazI eat fatty Chinese.F*ck my diet,at least for tonight.I suspect that for a good alcoholicintoxication has nothing to dowith consumption,but by the state they are in. So shall I take a sip,or shall I take a bite? In front of memy fried rice is unnaturally yellow,but contains delightful little bitsof pork and onions. To my side, is ruby redbatting her lovely eyelashes at me.She indeed, is dead sexy.If I don’t drink,she will fade awaywill fade from my brain,my greatest fear.If I do, she’ll make me sick,oh! What to do? So I sip, sweetly.What is a man if not a slave,if not captive by her?What am I,if not in her bondage? The egg foo yong will have to wait.Tonight, I will sleep sweetly.