THE SKEETERS AND MY STILL

In the backwoods of a Michigan cedar swamp,
I built myself a still,
It was a place where all my kith and kin,
Could party and drink their fill,

But, then there came the skeeters,
A trillion skeeters or more,
And upon me and my company,
They waged their evil war,

And, so we fled the dark cedar swamp,
Never to return once more,
And the skeeters buzzed with a royal pomp,
As we itched and scratched ourselves soar.