Nineteen Eleven

When I was in my bold twenties
many, several moonshines back
the world was prepared for war
and I was moonshining in the dark.
On those rugged Appalachians
we were about fourteen men
making firebox to bury the blaze,
getting liquor from the mash, as
smoke and steam rose sky-high.
Those nights were always fun
making whiskey and rum, selling
them for prices so low, in clay
jugs signed with symbols obscure.
A silvery twilight in nineteen eleven
the revenuers arrived quickly, we
deserted our distillery, fires burning,
still working, and coats hanging.
I never took to moonshining again,
but many, several moonshines later
I know the shine always tasted better
than all the gin and rum I’ve ever tried
and I was a shiner with pride.