SOUTHERN COMFORT
by John T. Baker
A feisty old Kentuckian 
Lay on his deathbed dying,
His faithful friends all gathered round,
His wife and children crying.

The old man motioned to his mate
To move a little nearer;
He gasped for breath and struggled hard
For loving words to cheer her.

"Oh, Mary, do not weep, my dear,
I will not have you sighing,
For I have just one last request --
On you I'm now relying.

"Down in the cellar there's a trunk,
And there's a bottle in it
Of fine old bourbon that I've long
Been saving for this minute.

"Go get that bottle, Mary dear,"
He whispered ever weaker,
"Come closer, Mary, listen well!"
His eyes roamed round to seek her.

"Then fill a glass with well-crushed ice,
Some sprigs of mint bruised lightly,
A pinch of sugar gently stirred,
And hold the glass quite tightly."

The old man's voice began to fade,
The pauses lasted longer,
But finally he rallied as
The words came out much stronger.

"And when the frost is on your hand,
Remember how you knew me .  .  .
Just fill that glass with bourbon and,
My darling, bring it to me.

"And then, my dear  --  don't fail me now  --
I cannot bear to think it  --
No matter what I say or do .  .  .
Then, Mary, MAKE me drink it!