II The Bootleg Gang at Sims’

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral rule They ain’t much doin’ in likker; Saloons is skurce ’z a breedin’ mule, An’ shy ’z a nestin’ flicker. But fokes kin git it—“bootleg stuff”— An’ hev a reel good souse, Tho’ most o’ them that does it ’s tough, An’ allers startin’ rows. Onct down ter Sims’, so people tell, A bunch o’ pickled runts Raised sev’ral kinds o’ p’tic’lar cain An’ pulled some rowdy stunts. Now ’Mersion ’s pop’lar thar ter Sims’, Some ’d ruther hev ’t than eatin’s; More ’n half the fokes sings Baptis’ hymns An’ goes ter all the meetin’s. Wal, they jes’ give ’emselves a hunch An’ got the law behind ’em; The sheriff rounded up the bunch, An’ Jestice Herford fined ’em. This made the boozers awful sore; They’d git thet Baptis’ goat! So fer a week they planned an’ swore An’ kep’ their scheme remote. Then suddint like one Sart’day night They took a hoss ’t hed died (They ’lowed it wan’t no pleasant sight), An’ lugged it right inside The Baptis’ church ’ithout a sound, An’ cut it all ter bits, Which they throwed ever’whar around, A-laffin’ mos’ ter fits. It seems like sackerlege or libel, But fac’s is allers fac’s; Thet hoss’es head laid on the Bible, All bludjunned with a ax. The sexton cleaned the mess some way, An’ services was held; But no one hed no word ter say— Jes’ prayed an’ sang an’—smelled. The foll’rin’ week some roughneck pup Shet caows up in the church; Which kind o’ het the members up— Enough ter start a search. But nothin’ doin’ till one dark night Thet rummy boozin’ crew Blowed up the church with dynamite, An’ then lit aout an’ flew. Say, jevver see a Baptis’ hot, Not Christyun hot but human? The kind thet kin, jes’ ’s easy’s not, Coagerlate albewman? That’s what they was, jes’ reg’lar hellers; No more o’ heapin’ coals! They swore they’d jug them bootleg fellers ’F it cost their mortal souls. They done it tew. Some tracks they seen They kivered up with pails; ’N’ a coupl’ o’ “bloods” thet wasn’t green Was sicked upon the trails. They chased the bums ter Hick’ry Run, An’ thar the Baptis’s tarred An’ feathered ev’ry doggone one, An’ chucked ’em under guard. Them boys is crackin’ stun terday; A new church stan’s in Sims’, An’ now in peace they watch an’ pray An’ sing their Baptis’ hymns. Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral thing The toughs don’t dast ter dicker With enny kind o’ Baptis’ ring— Leastways when’t comes ter likker.