Stressed grapes make good wine.
Swollen orbs and clinging vine.
When it's hot upon the hill,
That's when roots dig deeper still.
Good vines make for good fruit,
Pushing down a buried root.
Twisting 'round to reach the sky,
Leaves like wings extend to fly.
Liquor is made by fermentation.
Only death can bring salvation.
The precious product of decay,
Comes from life that passed away.
Sip the blend of soil and sun.
Breath the scent of vic'tory won.
Raise your glass to make a toast.
Of your painful seasons boast.
That's when grapes become the most.
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