An Epic Pun

Sing Muse of mighty heroes fallen, long
‘fore men with hunger toasted, breaking fasts,
their breads they buttered, enveloped in songs
the jays and sparrows loosed, from high on masts,
lifted on morns from towers alabast.
Sing now the sordid tale, a tragedy,
of boiling loss of one, alas the last
from long and noble vine. An elegy,
one befitting this fearsome and knightly
spirit who leaves naught but this small, glass jar,
each morn abused with knives of enemies;
with spoons as well, they dig, his pulp they mar.
Let it not be just I, in tattered cape,
alone who sings of thee, the concord grape.