Abandoned by the wayside lay a cork
wearing a hint of purple Beaujolais.
And dreaming of the life force of a stork
he had, because of spirits, lost his way.
He thought that it would be his expertise
to plug and cause obstruction to the snatch.
Which would, as it was custom, surely please
his holy grail who'd engineered this match.
So he would wait for little sugar cubes out back.
Placed on the window sill by ladyfinger hands.
There was the caveat that none could be pure black
nor could the Devil utter premature demands.
And so it was that Mister Cork took on the task
of what was deemed to be a human coup d'état.
He was too small to wear a modern warrior's mask,
and never realized the power of faux-pas.