A Poem On The Médoc by Peter Dickinson from ‘The Compleat Imbiber 7′ book (1956).

On the evidences of having spat too close in the tasting-room of a first-growth château

This purple spot

Upon my shirt

That otherwise appears so neat —

This mark is not,

As you think, dirt:

No, it is 63 Lafite.


One couldn’t swallow

This shrivelling brew,

Smelling of sawdust, harsh as brine.

The years that follow

Will turn it to

The fabled, violet-hinting wine.


Its price will rise

With every year

Far from my pocket as star from star:

And so I prize

The shirt I wear,

Stained with this honourable scar.