Here is another of Muleman’s (Wally Hendricks) stories that I converted to poetry.

The Whiskey Heist

A’way back when,
where men were men,
and boys were just tryin’ to be,
Every year without fail,
with the world by the tail,
we’d take off wild and free.
The event of the year
was the hunting of deer,
to prove that we were men.
Neither jobs nor our gals
kept us from our pals
and the thrill of the hunt again.

A week full of thrills
in the mountains and hills,
brimming with trophy deer
The evenings regaled
with tales of the trail,
consuming the liquor and beer.
Endless discourses
on wildcats and horses,
the memories that we made.
Though it cost me a girl,
I gave it a whirl,
every year with my buddies I stayed.

We’d run around town
to the men of renown,
too old to hunt on their own
and pick up their tags,
more deer we could bag.
Illegal, but fairly well known.
A service it was,
simply because
we’d fill their freezers with meat.
And so the law
would merely withdraw,
and mosey on down the street.

Traditions we had,
and I might add,
these were never to be dismissed,
For our honor’s at stake,
sworn never to break,
no excuse for being remiss.
You could not refuse,
each lad scored some booze,
for group consumption at night.
Failure to score
was to be abhorred;
or no booze for the week was your plight.

With that motivation,
imagine the frustration,
of the two who waited too late,
for the small town departed,
the residents had started
for deer camps all over the state.
Their sources were slim,
with hopes getting dim,
they decided to go to “The Club”.
Too young to go in,
they were gazing within,
to catch someone’s eye in that pub.

The boys dared not enter,
they’d be ground into splinters,
the place was managed by “Bob”
The tales that were told
would make blood run cold.
They could see that he’s on the job.
A monstrous man
with fryin’ pan hands,
he was six foot ten and three fifty –
when up walks this bloke,
puffin’ on a smoke,
with eyes that were beady and shifty.

Randy’s his name,
and drinking’s his game,
he lived at the bar or in jail
Says he understands,
money changes hands,
too much, but they made the sale.
So Randy takes off,
and they hear him cough
as he heads to the liquor store.
Our boys are dreaming
of a glorious redeeming,
and a week of good times galore.

They soon see their man,
but not like they planned,
he enters the bar and sits down
He didn’t dawdle,
but opened that bottle,
poured his drink, then passed it around!
Our heroes are MAD,
they know they’ve been HAD,
but they dare not go inside.
They know if they did,
Bob’ll blow his lid.
They’d be lucky to get out with their hide.

In desperate times,
a man makes up his mind,
it changes his life forever
Come hell or high water,
success or slaughter,
he’s committed to his endeavor.
He unloads his horse,
jumps on bareback of course,
and charges into that place
without even trying,
chairs go a flying,
pure shock on every man’s face!

And though it was risky,
our friend grabs his whiskey,
just as the tables go crashing.
the patrons are incensed
and so they commenced
to give our boy a good thrashing.
At least so they tried,
but that boy could RIDE!
His horse spun and sent them reeling,
He got what he came for,
then flew out the rear door.
He bought it, so it weren’t stealing.

Fate’s not arranged,
our lives are most changed
by the instant decisions we make.
Honor’s on the line,
some say it’s divine –
you may never know what is at stake.
As our friend was departing,
he thought Bob was starting
to get a big grin on his face.
But the next time they met,
he broke out in cold sweat –
Bob just gave him a big embrace.