Final bell must now I call, but not for you musicians three. Here I pour for your labours long, a toast to all you are and all you shall be. For singer most mellifluous, a bourbon sweet of calm and age. To you who set the beat, there be no sweet for thee. Take the spice of rye from ancient earth and set the beat that all may dance. The strummer plays a melody, tunes which are not known. Here’s a whisky made from wheat and here’s another from pecans.
Care not for fame of face. The dancer steps to your beat. Pound the drum with hardy edge. Let your grain guides the waltz. The spice of earth mixes life with all those who need to thrive beyond. ‘Tis your place and only yours that makes the rye a pleasure force. Let the sweet of bourbon go. Let pass the heat of melodies unmade. You’ll sing no song that’s untrue with faith from old friends true and new.