Shining with all his might.
He did his very best to raise
The sugars to great height—
And this was odd because it was
The middle of the night.
The Cab was ripe as ripe can be,
High 20’s was the Brix.
“I can add some acid later,
And some water to mix.
And then a lot of new French oak
Should fool those stupid pricks.”
The Walrus and the Winemaker
Were walking close at hand.
They laughed to think about the way
wine ratings were pre-planned:
“A Hundred Points! A classic wine!
The scores we share are canned.”
“If seven chimps with seven scales
Gave ratings for a year,
Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,
“That they would be less clear?”
“I doubt it,” said the Winemaker,
And shed a bitter tear.
“O, Suckers, come and walk with us!”
The Walrus did beseech.
“We promise that we’ll take the time
To clarify and teach!
Ignore our silly numbers, it’s
Our adjectives we preach!”
The eldest Sucker looked at him,
He dearly loved a rating.
A wine that scored a hundred points
Was cause for masturbating.
Big scores to him were mother’s milk—
And critics were lactating.
“I sucked the teat of Spectator
And nursed on Robert Parker.
Galloni’s nipples must be sore,
I’m sure that Boone’s are darker.
I’m such a chump,” the Sucker said,
“Each one’s a carny barker.”
But more young Suckers hurried up
Enchanted by the numbers.
The Walrus published countless ones,
Their pointlessness encumbers—
That sort of shit is usually the
Provenance of plumbers.
“I hate the scores, their emptiness,”
The Winemaker abjured.
“I only use them in my press,
Of this I can’t be cured.”
And not a single Sucker saw
He was a lying turd.
And more consumers followed them,
Then more and more and more.
And thick and fast they came at last
And purhased just by score.
This made the Walrus very rich,
The Winemaker a whore.
“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of points—and pics—and paid placements
Of what your dollars bring—
And why integrity matters some,
But dollars fucking sing!”
“But that can’t be,” the Suckers said,
“The numbers are so clear.
They help us buy the wines we want
Without an ounce of fear.
And ignorance is bliss, you know,
When you take it up the rear.”
“’Tis ignorance,” the Walrus said,
"That makes you lovely Suckers.
Come follow us and praise our skill—
The wines all taste like Smucker’s!”
“They do,” the Winemaker had to say,
“You stupid motherfuckers.”
“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,
“To play them such a trick.
To make them spend their hard earned bucks
On numbers that mean dick.”
“Oh well,” replied the Winemaker,
“It makes the business tick.”
“I weep for you,” the Walrus said,
“I deeply sympathize.
The wines you make are dull and crap,
And based upon my lies;
You only live to hear my scores,
But here is the surprise:
“I taste your best wines only once
And then I’m in a hurry.
I’ve tasted hundreds on that day,
My senses are quite blurry.
But I really do not give a crap—
I’m both the judge and jury.
“The scores I give are etched in stone.
They cannot be debated.
You’re fucked because I say you’re fucked,
You’re highly overrated.
I’ve found a new guy on the block—
The public’s never sated.
“You’ll never get big scores again,
Your numbers will be less.
I’ll give high scores to those who know
To kowtow to the Press.
You live by points, you die by points—
In Peace, I hope, you Rest.”
“O Walrus,” said the Winemaker,
“I’ve had a pleasant run.
I scored a lot of Parker points
I had a load of fun.
The wines I made were not that good—
Yet I sold every one.
“So I don’t mind those days are gone,
No, not the slightest bit.
Let’s take the Suckers home,” he cried.
But silence greeted it.
And this was scarcely odd
Because he’d killed the piece of shit.
