The Gaelic uisce beatha.
The water of life.
The welcoming sting dances patterns on your reluctant pallet.
Trickles drops down drowning your fear and narrow mind.
The angels tax 4% to the barrel annually.
And we've stolen the devil's cut.
Heavy flow down my throat beseech me to ask for more.
Makes a monster out of me.
Forms my skin to tempered steel.
Turn me on once more.
My love, old no. 7.