Evil Moonshine

Growing up in Heidelberg, our family had a chef When it came to cooking, my mom was, how do you say, tone deaf From France, he was. To my mom, her handsome rockstar Our Chef from Paris, Monsieur Georges Barbiaar My dad, how do you say, he didn't like him Always looking for a reason to break Georges like a papadum And one day it was over. Monsieur did not completely understand He'd been caught stealing wine. My dad now had the upper hand What I soon learned, the case wasn't air tight Father of mine had got a little too excited, midflight There was wine missing from a bottle in the fridge And only Georges had daily access for a sneaky little taste-age Dad at his worst, filled up the bottle with urine To catch him and poison him with evil moonshine Having done this for a week he called Monsieur in for a lashing To show our Chef who ultimately was the most dashing Chef listened attentively, said nothing, and then smiled His reply was unexpected, unforgettable and awesomely wild Papa he said, you're quite right, I am an alcoholic But your accusation tonight is preposterscopic It's true the wine in the fridge I use It doesn't go into my body, to abuse I learned to use it in school, as a cooking trick To make each meal for you, taste magnifique