Legends of the 238 

Twas it made in vintage fair ,With sun or shade or frosty air , The left side of the hill or right, Which may connote a different price

With gravelly soil to torture root, The terroir here is never moot, Tended by Latin hand or Frank, The left or yet the right bank

Here we sniff and swill (not spit), And try to make some sense of it, And then we will pontificate, We legends of the 238

Yet better men have gone before, Whose exploits now are folk lore, When landing on this oriental shore, Did determine to explore

They sought the finest food and drink, and every month they did sink, Tooth and claw in finest flesh, Paired with libations fresh

Now let us remember our giant Tueton, Who always laid the finest food on, for all to bear, Harrying the maidens fair

Or Ben and Scott of the Langedoc, our  wine a walking book, Let’s not forget Joerg Heil, Who has to balance the books

So raise a glass to those wise men, The precursors of our brethren

For wine does more than scripture can, To justify God’s ways to Man