Classic Poem

Sing a song of whisky,
A pocket without pence;
A purse that's always empty.
A head that has no sense
Four and twenty jail birds
Under lock and key,
Curse the drink that cost them
The birthright of the free.
When their cells were opened
Drinking more and more:
A drunkard's life behind them,
A drunkard's life before.
The brewer in his counting house
Is counting out his money;
The barman in his parlor
Is eating others' honey.
While starving little children,
And women lean and poor,
In rags and broken hearted,
Beg from door to door.
Sing a song of whisky,
Sound it all the time;
The horrid song of whisky—
Sorrow, sin and crime.