God bless those moonshiners,
I wish they were mine;
Their breath smells as sweet
As the dew on the vine.

Actually I still remember how vile our white lightning smelled and tasted (especially the morning after), before it was cut with cider.

Which reminds me of the old story of the fella who used to make homebrew in our village, Cal Powers, who married the school mistress. Well, Cal used to store his homebrew while it seasoned under their bed, and sure enough when he was sneaking in late one night after a heavy evening of boozing with his buddies one of the bottles exploded, and hit him in the ankle. He collapsed on the floor in a pile and as he felt the liquid flowing down his ankle he cried in anguish, "Agnes, you didn't need to shoot me!"

Cheerily,
Charley Noble