Extempore

Some simple rhymes to end the day. More serious works in progress.

If all men were distill'd into wine,
The following remarks would be all true and fine:
'Most men are boors: coarse and plain,
Their essence feeds neither soul nor brain.'
'Then most women, sweet yet superficial,
Theirs the taste both inferior and artificial.'
'Some wines, I've heard, aim for the top,
Sure high the price, always hides the common crop.'
'Then there're some, flavoured with emotion and ideology,
why, they always taste like some kind of apology.'
'While too, some are bitter and broken work,
I think; the taste must be because of a spoiled cork.'
'Oh these! Beware the wrathful, taste goes into nose;
I use them as a moisture for my garden-rose.'
'Those then, well-bred but keep their profile low,
No matter how you decant; they don't seem to flow.'
'Finally! My favourite come with taste of innocent,
Such a shame then; with one swallow they're spent.'