Ballad Of The Grapes

O Sadducees and Pharisees, Who harass the divine, Now harken with reluctancy How Daphne made the wine! (I drain a glass of bootleg Scotch, For fear my voice may tire. I pause ... I drain a larger one, Then whang the western lyre.) It was in San Francisco town Once dedicate to joy, Now given up to hypocrites And all reform's annoy. Oh! Daphne was as brave a girl As ever wore a glove. She made her prayer to Bacchus, Pan And all the gods of love. Now Daphne bought a load of grapes With ocean-purple skin; She bought some golden muscatel And called her lover in. And thrice she scoured her bath-tub (A needless act, we know) With Bon Ami, Dutch Cleanser And much Sapolio. And thrice she washed her snowy legs, At which a faun might kneel, With Ivory soap and Colgate soap And soap we call Castile. Then in the tub they dumped the grapes And in the tub she stepped; And oh! to see her nudity The men of God had wept! Not as the grapes of wrath are trod Trod she the vintage there, Up to her knees in scarlet foam,— Unhidden by her hair; But rather as when dryads white Pace slowly in the dance, She proved our old, delicious lies And certified romance. O fumes of Bacchus that betrayed The spirit ot the grape! O unseen incense that arose Around that lyric shape! A dream she was of pagan days Lost now to righteous man, When through the vineyards of the Greek Rippled the rout of Pan. Right gaily up and down she strode That treadmill of delight, As on her breasts and on her thighs The drops lay pink and bright. (O Sadducees and Pharisees, And had ye seen that dew Ye would have longed to sip each drop— And no such luck for you!) But tired she was as dear she was, Before the task was done; So children with the close of day Weary ot even fun. Wherefore a little pause from toil They did not think amiss. Perhaps they had a glass or two, And, it may be, a kiss. But he had brought a goodly cask, Funnel and strainer too, And so they filled that goodly cask With juice of ruddy hue. And in a cool and darksome place They set that goodly cask And had, perhaps, a glass or two, To celebrate the task. Now months must come and months must go And men know joy and care, But when that wine goes twelve per cent, May you and I be there!