In the heart of the South, where the sun meets the vine,
There's a color that dances, like sweet homemade wine.
Sangria, they call it, a maroon purple grace,
Painted on cowgirls and cowboy's rugged face.
With a twirl and a swirl, it paints tales of the land,
Of rodeos and sunsets, and boots in the sand.
Sangria, so rich, like the earth where it's found, In the heart of the country, it paints the world 'round.