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Way up in the mountains there’s a story that they tell.
About a man named Billy Jo and how one night he yelled.
He lived up in a little spot well-hidden in the hills.
A place where very few will go and many hide their stills.

They say he made a strong concoction by the moon at night.
To even taste his beverage you’d need a rare invite.
The recipe was passed along through many generations.
A secret kept by kinfolk and Billy’s close relations. 

Precise amounts of sugar were added to the yeast.
And then a few days afterward he’d have a night-long feast.
They said he knew just what to do to make it safe to drink.
A spoonful set on fire, and a blue flame meant in-sync.

He called it his white lightning, at times his mountain dew.
The colorless libation was his very special brew.
Always made clandestinely when no one was around.
He guarded the proportions of his most adored compound. 

Then one day they say that Billy made a real bad batch.
No one knows for sure but some will say the still got scratched.
The story is he took a sip and that he went insane.
They say the moonshine made him blind and went right to his brain.

All night they heard him screaming from his secret mountain place.
The people started searching, half the night, but found no trace. 
But when they found poor Billy they all said that he was dead.
Poisoned, his white lightning turned his body into lead.

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