A-Swill-Of The Devils Brews Poem by Mark Heathcote

Fingers fret and linger on the vine
Music's a tabled wine, ready to drink.
Whatever the reason, cause it's divine
When I drink a cup or two, with you.

Lips may-hanker for the fruit of dreams
A-swill-of the devil's brews can lower you
To your knees in all kinds of blasphemies.
Harp player, you're an angel, sometimes.

When fingers fret and linger on the vine
And the music it's just mine and yours.
Whatever the reason, cause it's divine
When; I drink a cup of maturing wine.