My Little Home-Made Bar
While the wintry wind is blowing, and it’s hailing and it’s snowing;
Folks all wonder how I manage to keep warm.
If they only knew the reason why I always keep in season,
At my door, an endless line would straightway form,
Comes the Summer, hot and torrid, I don’t swear it’s blinkin’ horrid,
It’s a time of joy and comfort, I declare,
For in my lowly cellar is the coziest rathskellar,
That’s my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
Thus I scorn official blighters who’d regenerate booze fighters,
By arresting them and placing them in jail;
Virtue can’t be legislated into man, degenerated,
Ancient rights can’t be usurped—they will prevail,
So I’m happy, hail and hearty and sometimes put on a party
Of my own without a solitary care,
Where I spend such blissful hours, in the fairest of all bowers,
In my little home-made bar beneath the stair.
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