Women are like a glass of wine
They need to age,
To be the fulsome flavour
Lest they fizz out, whining
When uncorked before time,
They are like the melancholy strains
Of a throttled nightingale
How they crib and chortle
Like the dammed river, they gurgle
How the grapes turn sour for women
When the other’s cup is fill to the brim
The sweetness fades in a fever
The red rage explodes from that scarlet shimmer
A wine opened young,
Douses the man, into muteness
So does a woman,
Who turns her man into a sage;
For years of meditative silence?
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