The ferment, grains spitting their inside, losing their body;
'magic' is in process.
****** nerves, gasping, and panting.
Soothe the drainpipe, the conscious lies within.
Al-mighty, transform the decay, is it honey?
It must be moonshine.

A pint or two, when you really don't know what to do.
It sure is moonshine.

Feeling the blues, blessed, you've the grain juice.
Ethanol, heating, and cooling, bleeds purity.
How come, when on a ride to 'know-where land' makes one 'impure'?
It's just moonshine.