The ferment, grains spitting their inside, losing their body; 'magic' is in process. Bloody nerves, gasping and panting. Soothe the drain pipe, the conscious lies within. Al-mighty, transform the decay, is it honey? It must be moonshine. A pint or two, when you really don't know what to do. It sure is moonshine. Feeling the blues, blessed, you've the grain juice. Ethanol, heating and cooling, bleeds purity. How come, when on a ride to 'know-where land' makes one 'impure'? It's just moonshine.