With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, it’s time for my annual redux of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” better known by its portentous first line, which opens with the Shakespearean-hued contraction ’Twas…

’Twas a Wine Country Christmas and all through the cellar

Were stowed bottles of vino and this lucky feller.

Since I was a guest, I should’ve inquired

“Say, mind if I binge?” before it transpired.

But my host quipped, “Don’t judge a wine by its label”

So, in due time, I drank him under the table.

Then I sneaked down the hall and through the cellar door

Brandishing a corkscrew and thirsting for more.

“Now, Syrah! Now, Malbec! Grenache and Chenin!

On, Pinot! Primitivo! Tempranillo and Zin!”

We’ll pop all the corks and we’ll fill every cup;

We’ll drink upside down just to say “Bottom’s up!”

Champagne gushed like geysers, merlot poured like rain;

Zins went to my head and cabs to my brain.

My teeth had turned purple, my cheeks had gone red.

Visions of cirrhosis danced through my head.

I crawled on my knees, for I’d forgotten my swagger;

I’d decline a straight line but would be happy to stagger.

And as I bumped in the night toward the end of my carol

I awakened my dear host passed out in a barrel.

He was righteously angry, aggrieved and appalled

Not for drinking his wine but for drinking it all.

But he bowed his head and said, with Yuletide resign

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good wine.”