Classic Poem

All the seats to knights allotted
Cannot vie with you, I think:
At this rate you'd be besotted
E'en if water were your drink.
You're a beggar most persistent,
For you cadge from all at hand
And you send to seats far distant
Your importunate demand;
Yet the liquor that you favour
In Abruzzi never grew,
And no Tuscan hill could flavour
Clusters sweet enough for you;
Nay, you quaff a vintage classic
That Opimius knew of yore,
And the blackened cask of Massic
Yields for you its ripened store.
Ten full cups I don't deny you,
But if more you wish to drain,
Then a pot-house should supply you
With the dregs of Laletane.