A crisp, sharp taste which dulls your mind,
is stored in barrels of oaken kind.
First from neat groves you apples pluck,
Then press and ferment in a cask.
Til its amber nectar, with any luck,
is potent enough for you to bask.
When poured in jugs of frosted glass
and served with nuts, your kin rejoice.
But drink too much and look as ass,
as you'll sing songs with hiccupped voice.