The Whisky Still

King, everyone’s heard of your Great Uncle Micky,
Who lived on a farm, and quite often got frisky.

Uncle Micky was the only drinkin' goat of the clan,
And was not good example for goat or for man.

The man he lived with raised enough corn to fill
The barrels for mash made for his whisky still.

Men came from all over to partake of this drink,
And the still at Suttons Corner, I fear was the link

To the downfall of Micky, because every night
He would come to the still, and there’d be a fight

Over who had to buy the drinks for this goat,
For he’d drink every one they’d pour down his throat.

By the time the evening wore on and was over,
Micky would stagger until he fell over.

One night, too much whisky made him lose his mind.
Uncle Micky butted someone from behind.

Well, a goat that was drunk had spoiled that man’s fun,
And it was that night Micky’s drinking was done.

Still, to this day, when men there drink corn whisky,
The tale’s always heard of the goat that got frisky.

King, this was the only one of your kin
We know of who drank til he did himself in.

But, we all blame it on the farm on the hill
Where he lived within reach of an old whisky still.