High up in the rafters dangle
the master distillers
and their immortal palates:
oh, they’re tipsy but unfallen,
just nosing in on this mystery of age
and oak, exacting their own
whiskey tax: a third of all holy spirits.
After a lifetime of ambrosia
one thirsts for the terrestrial,
for a real thoroughbred, with notes
of caramel and spice, just a hint
of limestone and rebellion,
their angelic nostrils tickled
by the ascending smoke and heat.