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"I ain't a drinkin' man, like I 'splained to you, but that big old yellow moon was a hangin' up there, and God's lanterns was a hangin' in the sky, and that curiosity got the best of me, and I took a slash.

And I got a crazy, revolutionary feelin' in my body. That yellow whiskey went down my throat like honey dew vine water. Humph, it tasted mighty good!

Like I said, it ain't yeller when it comes off the still. It's gotta age in wood a spell 'fore it turns yeller, ya knot-head. That thar poem was scrawled by a city slicker or a self-righteous prohibitionist, like yerself, who ain't never had a day of fun in his cotton-pickin' life. Or wasn't able to handle fun responsibly or intelligently. Or was mentally or physically abused by such a rascal and now has to project his own fears and insecurities onto others. Is that you, Mr. Jihad? Is it?

The Ghost of Mark Twain.