They Call Him Whiskey Jack

Bourbon and Rye neat,
some prefer it on ice and sweet
The burn as it coats,
running smooth down the throat
Leaving a taste of oak,
on the tongue spirits float
A buzz that spins the head round,
but not for this hare who is found
Rolling along in an open field,
where stalks of green yield
Harvest of plenty grown free,
row upon row as far as his eyes see
Handled with care,
fermenting the air
Filling the mind with a ride,
through galaxies far and wide
Grab hold of his tail,
each turn is a new tale
He’ll whisk you away,
dare you to play
Feel every slide,
euphoric, sublime
They call him Whiskey Jack,
a stoner wabbit, what’s up d’ak