An alcoholic doesn’t care about the hops in his beer,
and you my dear, are the grapes in his wine.
I, my dear, am a connoisseur of kinds.
A taster of tastes and a seer of sights.
I’d cool your days and I’d warm your nights.
I’d teach you how to see what I see.
Be what I be, a connoisseur of kinds.
Showin’ you things you thought were gone, things you thought had died.
Things like life and honesty.
Things like love and chivalry.
I’d sweep you off your pretty little feet.
Set you on that throne you thought was yours and tell you you could have it.
Come taste another taste with me.
See another sight with me.
Feel a day and night with me.
What has he shown you?
He just wants to get drunk.
You just want to get drank.
And I just want to see you rot.
I’ll be your distillery.
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