| He resides on Mount Olympus where no mortal goes
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| He is my charming mentor and everybody knows
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| He’ll bring you ecstasy and fill you with his grace
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| Careening carelessly he’ll coax you to his place
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| He walks through the vine rows
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| I’ll follow where he goes
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| His legs are smooth and clear and best when they run slow
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| His nose is earthy, fruit, peppery or rose
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| Sometimes he’s Beaujolais and sometimes bourgeoisie
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| He’ll warm you with his touch and copious luxury
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| He walks through the vine rows
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| I’ll follow where he goes
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| He walks through the vine rows
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| I’ll follow where he goes
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| As I swim listlessly through the clouded night
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| Hellenic songs surround and draw me to the light
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| Epicurean desires aroused; |
| I fall down to my knees
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| A handsome sacrifice, for Bacchus if you please
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| He walks through the vine rows
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| I’ll follow where he goes
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| He walks through the vine rows
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| I’ll follow where he goes
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| He spends all my time
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| But I can’t complain
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| It’s always in vain
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| He can’t do it another way
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| Never really knew
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| Never really cared
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| Always made a mess
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| At least I dared |