| Stephanie’s father came her from Alsace
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| He bought a big Victorian house
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| Filled with coloured glass
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| He kept his old wine bottles
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| In a cellar down below
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| On Friday night he takes them out
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| And stands them in a row
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| And all that he said
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| All of us there were tasting history
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| Those perfume-laden liquids
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| Whatever they might be
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| He dispensed then like a chemist
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| From the sixteenth century
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| Then leaned back in his armchair
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| With understated glee
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| While we tripped over our tongues
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| To trace their ancestry
|
| And all that he said
|
| All of us there were tasting history
|
| And all through the night
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| In glass filtered light, tasting history
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| Stephanie went to Egypt
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| To an excavation site
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| And works beneath the Pharaoh’s moon
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| Deep into the night
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| Her dad still opens Chambertin
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| As the candle burns away
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| It was the favorite of Napoleon
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| That’s what he liked to say
|
| And all that he said
|
| All of us there were tasting history
|
| And all through the night
|
| In glass filtered light, tasting history |