A Tall Timber Tale copyright 1990, Robert E. Dalton Thousands of volleys of fiery, temperance laden projectiles have been fired at the hapless habitual imbibers over the years. Their ranks, however, do not seem to have diminished appreciably. Perhaps this is because the "gunners" bear an uncanny resemblance to the great orator who said, "Ah is up here t' tell you all about sumthin' of which ah knows nuthin'." One can easily imagine how hard it would be for such a speaker to make a meaningful impression upon an audience. It is my personal opinion that greater results could be obtained by embracing the wisdom of an old hillbilly proverb: "Showin' is better'n tellin'." With this approach in mind, I appeal to all of the world's tiddly topers to consider well the catastrophic consequences of the gin-guzzling propensity of the gentleman in the following verse.

John Jellicoe was a lumberjack 
	Who lived by himself in a timber shack. 
He tried to avoid the company of men 
	An' socialize only with his animal friends. 
 
Now John had a failin' not commonly known; 
	(This due to the fact that he lived all alone) 
He was seen late at night by some of th' men 
	Sittin' in his timber shack guzzlin' gin. 
 
Not a logger on th' job had been brave enough t' tell 
	'Cause they didn't figger John would take it so well, 
So they kept their mouths shut an' tried t' stay away 
	From his gin-laden breath in th' heat o' th' day. 
 
But th' stench o' th' hooch on ol' John's breath 
	Became so strong he could breathe a man to death, 
An' as time passed on it became very plain 
	That John's exhalations were high-octane. 
 
Now this situation was th' singular reason 
	That disaster occurred at th' height o' th' season. 
Word came from th' river that th' logs had jammed 
	An' th' clearin' crew there needed every hand.

So John came uh-chargin' through th' woods in a rage 
	Like a saber-toothed tiger breakin' out of a cage, 
Mutterin' somethin' 'bout not bein' able 
	T' tipple a swig at a peaceful table. 
 
Huffin' an' puffin' an' uh-snortin' he came, 
	With his volcanic breath spreadin' high-octane 
An' leavin' a trail of intoxicatin' fumes 
	That lay like a fog amid th' mushrooms. 
 
Two bears fainted an' a bull-moose swooned 
	An' a mouse picked a fight with a drunken coon, 
While a family of wet-eyed, staggerin' skunks 
	Were weepin' an' wailin' 'cause they'd been out-stunk. 
 
Nevertheless, John got t' th' scene 
	Where two high-climbers an' a cross-cut team 
Toppled t' th' ground by th' loggin' chute 
	From whiffin' th' breath of that gin-filled brute. 
 
The calamity struck when John hit th' bottom; 
	After passin' two men who dropped like he'd shot 'em, 
He tripped on a twig an' fell with a crack 
	An' slid ninety feet t' th' dynamite shack. 

Pantin' an' puffin' like a blacksmith's bellows, 
	John built up fumes till the air turned yellow 
An' th' grass an' th' weeds for seventy feet 
	Lay flat on th' ground like fresh cut wheat. 
 
The shimmering mist spread out so thick 
	That the earthworms thirty feet down got sick, 
An' acorns hangin' from th' huge oak trees 
	Were poppin' like bullets from among th' leaves. 
 
Then came the "shot heard 'round the world" 
	When a drunk coon fightin' with a tipsy squirrel 
Fell against a stick which dislodged a rock 
	That rolled down th' mountain like a cannon shot. 
 
The rock hit a tree and shook loose a nut 
	That fell against th' side of a shotgun butt. 
The gun toppled over and the hammer hit a stone, 
	An' all of a sudden, everything was gone! 
 
They never tried t' salvage anything at th' scene 
	'Cause ever'thing was blown into smithereens, 
An' a great big hole at th' bottom of th' hill 
	Held th' shattered remains of a hidden gin still.

Now this sad story should benefit those  
	Who take to th' bottle t' cure their woes; 
A dangerous breath can result from this sin... 
	Just remember ol' John, an' stay away from th'gin.


Hic!

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