Moonshine

Oh, Moonshiner, man of the mountains high, Where whispers of wind and wildcats' cry. Your heart a kiln, your soul aflame, With the secret of white lightning's name. In hollows deep, your still does hum, A symphony of steam, a hidden drum. From fields of corn, a golden juice, To fiery spirit, in silver cruse. They call it 'stump water,' 'skullcracker,' too, This potent elixir, born of dew, A 'ruckus juice,' for joy and strife, A taste of freedom, a taste of life. You're a craftsman skilled, a master bold, In the art of alchemy, stories untold. With fire and patience, you coax it forth, A spirit potent, of the mountain's worth. So, raise a glass, to the moonshiner's art, A rebel's brew, to stir the heart, A taste of freedom, a whisper in the night, A lightning flash, a fiery light.