Shall I compare thee to a winter’s wine?

Thou art more stirring and more wholesome,

My radiant rosso corsa, coursing through my veins, passing

Skin deep,

Deep trouble,

Don’t rush to the finish,

Don’t drink and drive.


Let me have a spin of your flavour

Wheel, wheel of fortune, lucky dip,

I’ll take the plunge and take my pick from your

Bouquet, the best of a beauteous bunch,

And rest my lips against your blushing

Buttress of butterscotch and blackcurrant,

Que c’est beau!


Oh! Flickers of vermilion wink at me,

My blessed hands rest beneath your bowl,

Like two sconces hanging from a royal wall,

Fire brick, how you make me squiffy,

Love-drunk, vertiginous, verging on brilliant,

Your brilliance revivifies me,

Good beatitude required.


You – rich and round, me – ripe for the picking,

Christ! What a glorious body you possess,

And how you do possess

Me with your crimson kisses,

I’ll play the drunkard, you the Eucharistic Minister,

Administer me with more of your cardinal cordiality,



And so let me drown in your luscious lava,

Davy Jones’ locker, lock me up and throw away the key,

Oh! Keep me keen, just don’t let the stem stray too

Far, Amaranthus, just the two of us,

Soaked by your sumptuous waves,

Flutters, flutter your eyelashes at me, and

Summon the devil within.