He's dry--more Jim Beam
Is what he'd like in a highball.
He gazes at his liquor shelf,
And he's truly appalled.
There's nothing aged in wood casks;
There's just juniper-infused grain
Alcohol from a gin mill,
And it simply ain't the same.

Oh well, it'll just have to suffice.
He's a chandler drinkin' gin.
Doesn't know whom he will drink to
When he pours it in.
He's a guy who really knows his booze. . .
Been guzzlin' since a kid.
He churns candles out by the score,
But when they burn, they drip.

Stoned, he lights 'em up;
It looks like a fireworks display
Like the firmament filled with shining stars,
Or a tallow Milky Way.
Too much wax alight,
And the gin's like rocket fuel.
Then the paper fans the flames.
The place is burning like a fiery Yule.

Goodbye, no more gin!
It not only tastes, but acts like acetone.
The fire was beautifully pyrotechnical. . .
Now he's a Marseilles-vin man, Rhône.