This winter's rain spoiled the vine, We can produce only bitter wine, From these inundated grapes, We're in for lesser takings, In this here liquor store, I saw today ten customers, Headed for the door. Perhaps I should jam the knob? To keep them milling 'round the shelves, Or may be, sell the art and ornaments, And till, counter, doorknobs, To keep the payments coming in. This summer, we'll be thin.