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.
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