The Whiskey Poem

 

Jack, Jim, Evan and even Eli

Are the guys, I see on Saturday night.

We hang around hills

Rather it’s Heaven or Rock

Or we can be found by a creek,

Rowan or Knob, it doesn’t matter.

 

Sometimes we can be found with our Makers,

Or Pappy and Grand-Dad while

They’ll try to teach about being a gentleman

Or how to do that Rebel Yell.

They might tell us about the time they saw

A red or white stag at Yellowstone

With the buffaloes and eagles.

 

The Walker boys might come around,

Johnnie more than Dumas and you can’t forget about

Their friend Booker.

 

But my favorite place is the local whiskey bar,

Where I can find them all.

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