Yukon Prairie Fire
—a poem where heat rides the wind and sanity runs late
The prairie doesn’t whisper, friend—
It hisses low and burns the end.
A line of flame, a jagged breath,
A shot that smells a bit like death.
Yukon Jack, so smooth, so sweet,
A golden trick with heavy feet.
Then comes the fire, pure Tabasco,
A kiss that doubles as fiasco.
You tip it back—no time to think—
Just pain and smoke and missing link.
The throat ignites, the chest expands,
The wind picks up, then grabs your hands.
You cough, you curse, you wipe your brow,
You’re either in a bar… or plow.
And when it’s done, you’re left with this:
A prairie scorched, and one hell of a kiss.
📜 Yukon Prairie Fire – The Recipe
- 1½ oz Yukon Jack
- 3 dashes Tabasco Sauce (adjust if you want murder)
- Garnish: None—this is punishment, not pageantry
Instructions:
Pour Yukon Jack into a shot glass.
Add Tabasco directly—don’t flinch.
Shoot it fast. Regret it slower.
Best served in truck stops, ghost towns, or just before a bad decision wearing cowboy boots.