In a land far away,
‘midst hills rolling and green
lies quaint Vino Tinto,
a village serene.

Whose inhabitants few
spend much of their time
with but one concern:
the art of good wine.

With love and great care,
they work the year through,
for no vin ordinaire,
no grape juice will do.

Pursuing their passion,
their idol, their vice,
the one thing to which
they've devoted their lives.

They hope to experience
at the end of it all
but a drop of the pleasure
that is their call.

And perhaps take rest
in the knowledge that you,
in your own abode,
share some of it too.

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