'Twas the weeks before Christmas, and all through the fields

Not a tractor was stirring, not even one wheel.
The vines were all hung, their leaves fallen and bare
 Awaiting the frost that soon would be there.

 The grapes were all harvested, plucked from the vine
 With visions of grandeur dancing in their minds.
 And Warren in his Ben Davis, and muddy work boots
 Had just settled down for a long winter's snooze.

 When inside the cellar there arose such a clatter,
The winemakers sprang to see what was the matter.
 Away to the press pad, they flew like a flash,
Fermentation was finished, the must pressed and racked.

The juice in the tank rippled clear and bright,
 Giving lustre and fragrance, all such a delight.
 

 What else with their wondering eyes did they see?
Hard working cellar rats racking barrels and lees
With a little filter pump, so lively and quick
They pumped over the wines, for a mouthfeel so thick.

 So many wines, so many wonders to behold,
And the Bogle's, they shouted, of good times, foretold: 

Now Merlot, now Pinot, now crisp Chardonnay!

On Chenin, on Phantom, on rich Cabernet!
 

 The wines - how they tasted, the flavors, so merry!

Their color so rosy, the nose just like berries!
The palate was ripe, and so soft and so fruity,
And the finish: good structure, yet lingering and juicy.