Sprite Cranberry, shall I speak unto thee?
For thou art but a drink, thy flavors fake,
Coming not from a spring, nor from a tree.
To converse with thee, insane one would make!
And thou price, it is heinous, far from fair.
Thou hath a mere two months of the year.
Thy fruit is tart, fit only for a hare.
Sprite, thou art impure. I shan’t hold you dear.
But when winter time doeth come around,
And thy gruul colors are found in a store,
I smell a sweet scent, hear a pleasing sound.
For thy brief time only lets me love more.
So as inanimate as though might art,
I gift unto thee, all my human heart.
