Up on the hills steep, the grapes grow in the mud.
I stomp those grapes till the mush looks like blood--
Muck that's like blood from skin on them Rhônes
The vines have peaked, now it's time to get goin'.

CHORUS:
You stomp 16 tuns, what do you get?
A foot that'll molder, sunk deeper 'n' wet,
A stained peter, Rhone ballsy, damp pants hang low.
My toes and soles from the stompin' be sore.

Grapes shorn in the mornin' when the sun's on the vines,
I hiked up my pants cuffs and walked the incline.
I jumped in the tub and into that mass strolled.
The stomped dross lapped up to my *sshole.

CHORUS

I got corns a-formin' and there's sizzlin' pain,
I think my stubbed toe is stuck in the drain.
Wanna graze at a lunch break, after which I'll be lyin'
Next to a high Rhôned woman; we'll stomp midst the vines

CHORUS

Now the lees I'm stompin', and my steps are tired.
A lot of meth did I, and now I am wired.
Again I dive in till all grapes peeled.
I get so much more work done after swillin' those pills.

I stomped 60 tuns, thanks to the meth.
I'm going nonstop. . .don't even take a breath.
Put saltpeter, not sulfites, in bottles galore.
Those oenophiles won't get it up no more.