My life as it stood- A bottle of Rum

The rum stood cold in the oak barrel
A year it was to be there, in that American barrel
To mature and age and gain flavour from
the all American oak, why couldn't it be French?

An angel's share was not forgotten
neither was the spirit that was to be still
It was restless, but imprisoned by the hardwood
there was nothing it could do, but wait

Soon the clear fluid turned a slight brown
A sign for maturity and tranquility was to be found within
The wooden planks no longer resemble prison bars
and the barrel became like a haven

But the elysium was not to be for all eternity
for the year was getting shorter and
Graduation day from the nursery was near
What is it to be?

Carribean light or Abrabian spiced
no one could tell just yet, but one's thing's for sure
what The brewer has in mind
Something grand, something for a King

Absolut Vintage