THE BOOTLEGGER by STANLEY H. CAUFFMAN

I'm a peddler bold, and my trade's as old
As the cold in the winter's sky;
My pack is crammed with contraband,
And damned be the souls who buy.
Though I wear a leer of evil cheer
It's a tear that I trade with you;
For my charge is pain, till your spirit's slain,
And my gain is the sin I do.

My wine is filled with the blood that's spilled
From the killed who have died for me;
Yet the dew from the grave of the shackled slave
You'll crave, though it bitter be.
It's the soft caress of a silken tress,
And the press of two perfumed lips
When you raise the glass -- but these visions pass,
And, alas! 'Tis a beast who sips.

Oh, true! 'Twill sing like a purling spring,
But the sting of a venomous toad
Lies near its heart, so with virtue part
When you start on the downward road.
For its fragrant breath is the flower of death
In lethal drops distilled;
And the lewd desires its taste inspires
From the fires of hell were spilled.

Yes, my trade's as old as the love of gold,
And coldly I've victims sought;
If my cup you drain you will buy again,
For I reign over the serfs who bought.
Come! Pay, you fool, for it's I who rule,
And I'm cruel to the men who thirst;
For I'm peddling death! And I hold my breath
To see who'll be damned the first!

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