Vineyard.

We cultivate here
All that's human
Earthly goods and profane splendour
Button noses on vines
We have beauty on tap

This field looks empty
But beneath the mineral soil
A crop of child-bearing hips
Slowly comes to plump fruition

This is the glasshouse that grows
Painters' hands and pianists' fingers and
A clockmaker's eyes and a fisherman's wrists
And the legs that carry you on romantic trysts
The lungs of the operatic
This is a dancer's torso and legs from a very good vintage
I remember the air that year
So well

If you'll follow me we have a special
Something just for you
In here behind the locked door

This vat, this tank
Is really something
Of course it takes very long to mature
But we are perfectionists
Fifty years of cultivation and one hundred
Thousand kind words

One hundred percent, pure
First grade
Human empathy