The Whiskey beaters

Those jazzy days are long gone

Wiped off by the daily sleet in the corn fields

That piqued the ego of the sowers

Now bent upon supplying the world with the yield

The whiskey beat for the city beaters


Of manifolds and many holds

Many men tired by the corn flowers

Tied to their everlasting dreams

Of fleeing into the city quarters

Leaving behind the dead end of the tulips

But they are not returning those who have seen the twinkle shores

Of making life proper on the lurches.


Now they would not open themselves to the maize

The love tender in the buds have produced

Waiting over years and years upon the fruit

That the whiskey they have heavenly obtained

And ready to ripe through

Has yielded nothing but the soulful love of a drunkard

And the hunt for the game is on


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