Fort Mill Times

LIQUID FOOD SPECIALISTS.

The Volstead act has hatched a brood of specialists in liquid food: in one respect these birds are wise, they know it pays to advertise. Wherever I may chance to look, in paper, magazine or book, these hawks are trying hard to whet my appetite for something wet. Regardless of the way I feel, or how I fill my leather peel, If my complexion's green or pink, I am assured that I must drink a pint of this, a quart of that, to make me thin or make me fat. Whatever my condition is I need some new and potent fizz that will relieve my aches and pains and clean my grates and water-mains. They tell me when I've filled my tank with some concoction, brown and rank, I'll lose my calm and thoughtful mien and go and gambol on the green. Instead of walking slowly round I'll caper like an unleashed hound, My life will be as full of joy as when I was a barefoot boy and chaperoned a pair of mules among the burrs and cactus stools. They do not care a tinker's d what sad distemper pesters me, if I'll absorb their fluid cheer, I'll scamper like a yearling steer. I may be such a fearful wreck that nothing works except my neck, but if I'll drink the stuff they sell I'll promptly strut forth sound and well. Today is not like yesteryear when men could buy a keg of beer to put some tallow on their slats, or drink champagne or rough-on-rats as they saw fit: those days are fled and we drink mustang oil instead. Along the dry and dusty roads where men must tote their weary loads, no moist oasis bursts in view, well stocked with ice and mountain dew, but rows of bill boards tell with pride about the worth of orange-ade. We buy a barrel of hornet juice to wake us up but, what's the use? The old kick simply isn't there and so we moan and tear our hair.