Away down yonder in the holler, Jack
Was sure he’d make a fortune off his still.
He knowed the fastest way to brew a batch
And sneak it to his “clients” up the hill.
He knowed the places G-Men liked to hide
And knowed the lying dogs who’d rat him out.
The county might be dry but Jack took pride;
His hootch would always flow. There’d be no drought.
Old Jack tried hard to make his moonshine quicker.
One careless night, distracted by his liquor,
He accidently stumbled ‘cross a mine
A fellow “businessman” had left behind.
His still (and dreams of wealth) lit up the holler
And Old Jack never sold another swaller.