A poem by Victor Keegan
Fine wine, we are authoritatively told
Must be fondly nurtured before it's sold
Canes carefully pruned, from classic vines
All trellised out in tight battalion lines
And picked on the best day of the year.
These are rules to which you must adhere
If you want to make a drinkable wine
Or else your efforts will wither on the vine.
Which is what makes it all so cool
That Chateau Tooting shatters every rule
Grapes are drawn from gardens and allotments small
Or maybe hanging from a neighbour's wall
From the extremes of London near and far
Though no one knows what vines they are
And all brought to a central pick-up place
At a given time and so starts the race
To get the fruit to a winery fast
Where using skills quite unsurpassed
Their alchemists turn this base London mould
Once a year into viniferous gold
Which is why I am usually rooting
For South London's prime wine, Chateau Tooting.