Ripening, the corn,
ripe ears are then shorn,
as from artist forlorn…
in the Netherlands born.
He used corn to stifle moans—
down his throat it was thrown…
sliced his eardrum horn.

Up you will lift your elbow,
after to the well you go.
Shake off the blues today;
forget work and play.
Work will make your throat dry;
to wet it, just apply
Dryness-slaking corn.
Rye abhorred; ’dored corn.

To the still first it must go,
where it will bubble and mellow.
They’ll check it every day…
mature it the right way.
When it’s set to come outside,
they’ll taste results with pride…
sliding down their gorge.

Swirl it round and round the glass,
swirl it with a steady grasp.
Hold it in your hand,
aroma expands.
After that elbow bend,
you do it all again—
glug glass after glass. Yeah!

Tight, you, from the corn;
tight (stewed) from the corn.
You’re not feeling forlorn…
your inhibitions shorn.
You make a mistake: drive home…
into a cell you’re thrown.
Time to call on phone.

Wife you call at home,
wife bawls out a groan,
Moans, “Do not come home,
mope there all alone!”
Snipes, hangs up the phone.
Striped clothes…your new home.