‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through The Cave
Not a creature was stirring but for That Knave.
The wines have been chosen by their owners with care
Mindful of the feast with which they will pair.
And tho’ The Cave is run by a Troll,
It stays open normal hours ‘cause that’s how we roll.
Traffic is bad, people run late,
(Or maybe they just procrastinate).
They’ll all have some wine before Santa’s Sleigh
They’ll all have some wine by the end of the day.
And when on their lawns there arises a clatter
They’ll think it’s the wine that’s really the matter.
Well, maybe it wasn’t the first bottle of wine,
Maybe it was really only glass number nine.
Glass eight is the sugarplums that dance in their heads
Glass seven was the desire to seek out their beds.
In their dreamy haze and the moon this night full,
Though wrapped in the warmth of their blankets wool
The persistent cacophony draws them to rouse
And then wonder why they’re seeing eight odd-shaped cows.
And a sleigh filled with toys and a guy dressed in red
And forget it, no way, then they’ll go back to bed.
They’ll sleep through the rest of it soundly with glee
And greet Christmas day with a lovely of Chablis.
(moo.)