On a dusty shelf

Alone a bottle of the finest red rests

Soon to emerge from the longest rest

Once its cork the waiter takes, and

No shock to the red nectar makes

First breath of natural air it takes

What tragedy when first it breathes

Sour on the nose, and

Sour to the taste

“Out with it, the wine has turned”

Oh Bacchus great god of life

Tragedy when fine red a vinegar makes

Gone now that deep claret nectar caressing palette with silken flow

No luscious ruby redness rewarding eyes with gentle glow

No delicious aromas rewarding nose with subtle show

All the senses offended now by what the bottle contains

No bridge to joy it now retains

No delight now remains

Once so valued; now worth nought

Where lies the boundary between ripe and not?

Drinking well; still able to please

No longer drinking, dispose at will

How can we know?

Peering into a uncorked bottle will never reveal

No date can be declared

Only by corking the bottle can we ever know

Nose and sight and taste will reveal

Try we must in order to know

Wish this was true for old men too

At least the old wine is tried before being dismissed

Old men unwanted as too old

Old wine is cherished until failing

Old men are never uncorked

To reveal the joy they can deliver

“Out with him, the swine has turned”