APPALACHIAN WHISKEY

By

C. Neuroticus Absolutus

Follow the blue rivulet’s sigh

From way atop the mountain high,

Tricklin’ past a mystic glade

Where Appalachian whiskey’s made.

A rustic shack might near unseen

In forest, fertile − evergreen.

Inside a long-forgotten mill

Moonshiners hide their precious still.

Cut the branches from felled trees.

Copper boilers heat with ease.

Bring the mash to roiling bubble

Makin’ revenuers’ trouble.

Telltale wisps of chokin’ smoke rise

Chasin’ ’way hot summer flies.

Mason jars, brown jugs abound.

Ain’t no smokin’ here around.

Chop some wood and have a chew.

Thrice-distilled, man, taste that brew!

Run the still throughout the night.

Smoke fills the darkness, out of sight.

The law’s a-watchin’ all the roads

For yeast, taters, mash-makin’ loads,

Like sacks of sugar in a truck.

Hope no one sees, but that takes luck.

Ain’t no roads come up this far,

No passing truck, no speeding car.

Everything comes up by mule,

The food, the makin’s, every tool.

The mule hauls back white lightnin’ brew

So pure its flames burn near sky blue.

Warm you up when it goes down,

Make you shiver, lose that frown.

One ear cocked so’s you can hear

Anyone what might come near.

One eye open when you sleep,

Can’t allow no slumber deep.

Hear the hounds a-bayin’ now?

Time to run! They’re close. But how?

Ain’t nobody knowed we’re here,

No wives, no gals to interfere.

Go down the back way, circle ’round.

Run hard! They’ll lock you up in town!

Get to the car! Run, get away!

Can’t afford no jail today.

Got no job and got no pay

Brewin’s ’bout the only way

To help my brothers, sisters, Ma

Since angels came and took our Pa.

Fly down the mountain, mind the gears.

They’ve never caught you in past years.

V-8 a-throbbin’, screamin’, fightin’,

Built for runnin’ pure white lightnin’.

Those revenuers lack the nerve

To stay real close on every curve.

They’re fallin’ back too far to see,

Ain’t that somethin’? Slap a knee!

Cross the county line to hide out.

Cousins help you, check your ride out.

Start to itchin’, feelin’ frisky?

Make more Appalachian whiskey.