Moonshine

Down at the Bronco Bowl there’s a rootin’ cowgirl who forbids anyone to look at her. One time, I tried to buy this dame a beer, but she explained that she only drinks moonshine. “Good calf,” I said. “Dang.” (I had to wipe my brow.) “You swallow that venom?” “It sure does goes down rough,” she smiled. Then I said, “I heard it’s made from rainwater and shrapnel.” “Could be,” she said; “—when it comes back up, it’s ruby red.” Then I told the reason that I steer clear of that particular beverage: “The one time I tried it, next mornin’ I woke up in bed and there was sis.” “Me too,” she smiled and walked away. — So I spent some hours lookin’ under bar-stools, tryin’ to find my kids, till I recalled I ain’t got none.