Grain after grain I’m stoking this still,
and sometimes I put corn in when Bourbon’s what I distill.
Other times I’m making gin
out of wheat or some other fuel.
And next week it will be brandy.
I’ll be fueling the still—
up the grain will be ground.
In some rye will be fed,
turning a golden brown.

The Feds haven’t found
my still because it is in the woods far outside of town.
And that’s why I do not fear them,
and that’s why I play it so cool.
I am avoiding the tax man.
And I’m fueling the still
on my camouflaged grounds.
I’ve got nothing to dread;
the Feds ain’t comin’ ’round.

But then I discover that Tim,
who’s supplying me with the fuel,
works undercover for tax man.
I’ve been fooled; now my still
is gonna get shut down
by those guys from the Feds,
who have jailed me in town.

In the cooler I’m still,
glum, not making a sound.
Next, to court I am led—
the judge hands ten years down.