(Style: Traditional Folk/Bluegrass. Think simple acoustic guitar strumming in 4/4 time, maybe a banjo or fiddle adding a quick, mournful lick after each verse.) (Verse 1) In the hollow where the shadow falls the deepest, Beneath the pines where the mountain fog is steepest, You can hear the steady running of a stream, And the low copper hiss of a whiskey man's dream. Got a secret in the bedrock, far away from sight, Where the only illumination is the cold, cold moonlight. And the King's Revenue man, he ain't welcome here, He'll find nothing but silence and a taste of the fear. (Chorus) Pour that White Lightning, let the fire start to climb, It’s the hard-earned currency of a hard-working time. It burns like a serpent, but it warms like the sun, From the still on the mountain 'til the long night is done. It's corn, cane, and copper, a prayer and a trade, The best damn medicine that the mountain ever made. (Verse 2) My grandpappy brought the recipe across the foam, From the peat and the barley to the new mountain home. He learned how to grind the sweet corn with the stone, And keep the mash bubbling when he was all alone. Now the mash is sugar sweet, but the end is awful strong, It’s the only honest work we’ve known our whole lives long. We ain't running from the law 'cause we're doing what is bad, We're just keeping what is ours, the only chance we had. (Chorus) Pour that White Lightning, let the fire start to climb, It’s the hard-earned currency of a hard-working time. It burns like a serpent, but it warms like the sun, From the still on the mountain 'til the long night is done. It's corn, cane, and copper, a prayer and a trade, The best damn medicine that the mountain ever made. (Bridge) (Tempo slows, voice drops to a solemn, narrative tone.) Oh, the motor’s heavy growl down the old creek bed, That’s a full tank of gas and a price on my head. Gotta load the glass jugs and strap 'em down tight, And pray that the old Ford can make it through the night. 'Cause if they catch you running, they'll burn the whole farm, And lock you away for keeping your kinfolk from harm. (Verse 3) (Tempo picks back up slightly, more urgent.) So I drive without my lights on, and I pray to the stars, To pay for the doctor, to fix up the scars. It ain't for the pleasure, and it ain't for the sin, It's just the only way that a poor man can win. The government takes your taxes, then they take your soul, But they ain't got the key to the spirit in this hole. So raise up your jar, son, don't waste another drop, 'Til the sun is on the ridge, and the revenuers stop. (Chorus) Pour that White Lightning, let the fire start to climb, It’s the hard-earned currency of a hard-working time. It burns like a serpent, but it warms like the sun, From the still on the mountain 'til the long night is done. It's corn, cane, and copper, a prayer and a trade, The best damn medicine that the mountain ever made. (Outro) (Music fades slowly with the guitar and banjo, repeating the first line of the chorus softly.) Pour that White Lightning, let the fire start to climb... (Fade out)
