Jack Daniels

Once knew t'is poor son-a bitch named Jack Daniels.  Met 'im on t'e road one night.  I jus' got done wit' a fresh dig - scoring some necklaces and a gold toot' - when I see t'is guy on t'e side of t'e road sitting on a barrel.

So I asked him, 'What-cha up to?'

He looks at me, 'Waiting for m' ride.'

'Where?'

'Can't be sharing t'at, no.'

I understood, I nodded.

'I hope he comes t'is time,' Jack Daniels said.

'How long you been waiting?'

'Eight years.'

'T'at's damn prison time!' I said with a laugh.

'Worth it when I share w'at's in m' barrel...'

'W'at's t'at?'

'Best whiskey you'd ever had touch your lips.'

I begged him for a sip but he refused.  So I left.  A week later I heard he was killed that night - a rambling group come by drunker than my Uncle Willy when he found-out he was gonna be fifty n' a Daddy again.  They stabbed Jack Daniels, took his whiskey, and drank it.  Word was i's the best whiskey any of 'em tasted.  So good, t'ose men turned theyselves in for t'e murder. 

Someone also t'ld me t'at Jack Daniels had a son. Boy, I hope his boy finds t'at whiskey rec'p beacuse I sure as hell all mighty be ready for a change off 'a t'e rum.