The Ballad of William Sycamore (the Moonshine poem.)

My father was a moonshine man,
a regular sort of feller,
He kept ma plastered for forty years,
with the still he ran in the cellar,

I recall the folks who sampled his stuff,
the glassy look on their faces.
One day our spaniel inhaled the fumes,
and dropped dead at twenty paces,

My father worked hard with his cooker and mash,
and there were fruits of his labors.
By selling his moonshine around the town,
he killed off most of his neighbors.

Us boys, we got into the moonshine game,
and gave the business new birth,
The eldest is now at Alcatraz,
the youngest at Leavenworth.

They never caught my father, though,
they no longer raid his place.
The revenuers now buy his stuff,
for use at a missile base.