The Still

It was in 1929, the depression in full swing
It seemed as if life stopped, even the birds didn’t sing.
No work, no money, many children to feed
What was he going to do in this terrible time of need.

He had heard of men making rot gut whiskey at a homemade still
A good way to make money, his babies stomachs to fill.
He had two pearl handle pistols, put one on each hip
Went deep into the woods, the trees he began to chip.

A fire he built, to cook the grain would be the best he knew
Wearing his pearl handled pistols, and cooking his own brew.
The sheriff was always looking for rising smoke in the air
Hoping to catch someone, about families he did not care.

He would smash the still and haul stillers right off to jail
Our family sworn to secrecy, never, never to tell.
One day a man came riding up, said the sheriff was on his way
My dad knew he had to hurry as he began to pray.

He said “Lord, what I do may be wrong but I have children to feed”
Hid the whiskey under the barn floor and covered it with seed.
The sheriff came riding up looking all around
The whiskey that my dad hid, never to be found.

He made good whiskey, kept it pure indeed
He did it for his children, he knew he had to feed.