“You’re drunk!” says Tina

When all my spirit’s low, there’s no more beer,
I settle down to drink a glass of wine.
Before the fire, I’ll sample some Bordeaux,
and if the fancy takes me, quaff a Scotch,
a heady cocktail when it’s mixed with cider.
To finish? I’ll crack open your Champagne.
 
I guess you think I’m on a binge campaign?
Well, yes, you’re right! I must drink lots more beer,
and take my love, and play my sport inside her,
unless she chooses to demur, complain and whine –
then I will simply have another Scotch,
relax alone, and try to dream, bored – oh,
 
now where’s the corkscrew for my next Bordeaux?
If I can’t find it, I’ll become a pain,
and simply have to have a load more Scotch,
until they come to lay me on my bier,
then auction off my stash of finest wine,
and give the grateful kitchen sink my cider.
 
I would I were a vintner – shrewd insider,
who had the wherewithall to brew Bordeaux,
that gentle tempting mistress of all wine,
more subtle in her taste than rough Champagne
seductive, warm, unlike all modern beer,
that’s chilled – my god! I’d murder for a Scotch!
 
I beg you please – don’t whinge or meanly scotch
my plan to drink my fill of vintage cider,
plus crates of ale and Guinness – any beer
will do, to supplement this fine Bordeaux,
that lulls me into sleep, removes all pain,
the mother of my comfort, god-like wine.
 
Now hell may roar, satanic engines whine.
Oblivious to all here, after Scotch,
I cannot hear the angels sing, “Champagne
is heaven’s tipple – rustic scrumpy cider
can go to hell, along with your Bordeaux,
and all your barrelfuls of bloody beer!”
 
Envoi

I’ve drunk a glass of wine, a pint of cider,
a nip of Scotch, a bottle of soft Bordeaux.
Here my sestina ends. Champagne? A beer?