King Whishey's father down in Hell,
   He rubbed his hands with glee,
"My son on earth is doing well,
   Extremely well," said he;
"Pile up the logs upon the blaze
   And let the furnace roar,
Another batch of Whiskey's slaves
   Is hammering at the door."

The flames shot up a brilliant red, The grid was white with heat, A basting pot of boiling lead Was placed on every seat. "Ha, ha," said Satan, "this is neat; We have no cause to fear That they'll complain they did not meet A warm reception here."
King Whiskey sat upon his throne, His courtiers standing round, All meek, subservient in tone, They bowed them to the ground. In tribute then they handed up Their stores of golden wealth, And from the reeking poison cup They drank King Whiskey's health!
And out beyond the palace gates The wives and mothers stand, And, breadless, loudly curse the fates That whiskey rules the land. The courtiers dimly hear the cry, But Whiskey dulls their ears, "Fill up, let revelry run high, We'll drown these childish fears!"
And men there are in Whiskey's land Complaining times are bad And money getting scarcer and But little to be had; And yet however bad is trade And things however flat, King Whiskey's tribute must be paid, They can't go short of that!
King Whiskey's courtiers soon grow old, And tribute's falling short, The strength is gone, the blood is cold The once clear mind distraught! And demons, imps, and grinning apes. And glaring reptiles yell, And loathsome forms and fearsome shapes All point the road to Hell!
But Whiskey's court is bright and gay. Nor do the ranks grow thin, For as the old are borne away The younger ones come in. King Whiskey's father down in Hell, He rubs his hands with glee, "My son on earth is doing well, Extremely well," says he.

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