While Moira stinted not on Jacob's Creek

Red wine was a fine art I never mastered

That Saturday night was an epic session

We strode naked in her garden, plastered

My memory of events is somewhat vague

A thorn ripped the seat of my underpants

Then I was rolling about the grass, stinking

Of cat-shit, eaten alive by nocturnal ants

Moira was concerned about a hedgehog

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