The Wild Grape Vine Poem by Raymond Farrell

The wild grapevine
Has wrapped itself around the back fence
If it were not already dead
It would have killed it
The grapes are so sour
They'd make a pig squeal
I have shunned them for years
But the grouse like them
After the fruit has ripened
And fermented on the vine
The birds feed
Until
They're waddling around tipsy
And squawking at the top of their lungs
If too drunk
They can't fly
But if just a bit high
They'll give it a try
The result usually being
A rough landing.