Banded by sawgrass and tall, crusty willows,
the secret lies hidden at Jefferson's Pond,
where forged copper kettles spin wonders with sugar,
drip toxic nirvana in old Mason jars.
Stoked by a wood-fire of hell-meat proportions--
Jefferson poked it with billows of iron.
At midnight, he tapped it, I took such a sweet sip
it foamed off my eyelids with kids of its own.
Smooth on the fingertips, smooth on the barrel
rolls 'cross your native tongue, tightens your loins.
Metal on foreskin, it charms like a little
slug on a bottle inch-worming along.
Slathers of catfish still jump from the whirlpool--
briskets with whiskers caught fresh from the pond.
Saute in butter and serve with a handful
of pan-fried potatoes in parsley and lime.
All night elixir free-flowed from the bottle
and we were transported to regions beyond.
I dreamed of eggplant and lusted elusive
diaphanous maidens from all nearby farms.
Married by morning to Hayden Frock's daughter,
a wise-made desicion once I weighed the odds.
Save me from bacchanal spent in one night of bliss;
save me from Winchester marital bonds.