Here the winemaker from Perth Hills is not meek.
For she slurs with an incessant ruddy cheek.
But never in vogue have red faces been
Without a tart, horrific sign of sin.
As she bottomlessly makes and drinks Merlot
Gossip spreads of her business’s woe.
Not for the wine but cause she lacks of well
As dabs of No. 5 mask not the smell.
Many said she now is mother to none
For kin left her for a more sober one.
‘There once was a princess who everyday
Lived no fear of any malicious prey.
She lived with her dozen brothers merrily
But the queen, ill with plague, passed on quickly.
So the widowed king betrothed a mad fake,
A witch many said, the source of all ache.
The witch played her evil tricks all in spite
The brothers men at night but swans by light.
But if the princess wove clothes for their core
Then as humans her brothers could stay more.
Carried to safety by her brothers’ sweat
The princess silenced to prevent regret.
For if she spoke, the swans would join their mum
So while she knit, her voice stayed unwelcome.
Sacrificing much, like a mother kind,
Still never once did she lose her pure mind.
Unlike me who couldn’t give up a glass
For my darlings who wait for me to pass.’
Confirming gossip, the winemaker sobbed
Hysterical rains from her eyes were robbed.
Speech more slurred than ever, off her lips tears fell
Until she reached a sober state of well.
Her newly wistful tale continued on
As the alcohol used her as a pawn.
‘The rest of the tale will only be pained
For my impure mind with wine always stained.
I had cursed my family as they fled
And had not been the sweet princess who led
Them safe away from my regretful wine
For love to remain a mother to mine.’