[Tim Murphy]

Hic!

I’d two dozen bottles of whiskey in me cellar
and was told to empty each and every one
down the sink by me wife and I was to tell her
truthfully when the unpleasant task was done.

Wid a heavy heart I pulled the cork from the first
and poured the contents down the sink exceptin’
one glass which I drank to honor me thirst.
I did the same with the second bottle acceptin’

a single glass for meself as I toasted “Good luck.”
I withdrew the cork from the third one then to drown
the sink which I poured and drank. Then slowly I took
the cork from the fourth and poured the bottle down

the glass which I drank. I pulled the bottle through
the cork of the fifth and drank one sink I poured out
of the next glass. Then I poured the cork, withdrew
it down the bottle which I drank about

the time I corked the sink with the glass and drank
the pour which I bottled. When I had emptied the wall
I steadied the cellar with one hand, which I drank, and sank
the sink and counted the glasses, bottles, all

to the other, and more of which there was 33.
When the house came by I counted it again
and then got all the houses in one bottle easily
which I drank. Not under the affluence then

of incohol nor being as thunk as teeple pink
I am, I fool so feelish—diddly idly—not yet
knowing who is me and starting to think
the drunker I stand a round the longer I get.

[Richard Wilbur]

This is a very funny poem which recirculates its material with growing absurdity, as in the author's suite concerning an Australian disposing of snow in England. It calls for recitation in an Irish accent, and I like the authentic Irishness of its mock-gentlemanly excuses for drinking--the "to honor me thirst" of the second stanza and the toast of the third. Technically the poem is well done, and some of its rhymes (cellar and tell her, exceptin' and acceptin') are attuned to its comicality. The one phrase I don't like is "the affluence... of incohol" because I have heard that joke before in other contexts.

[R. S. Gwynn]

Witness Mr. Hayes's other joke poems, even a bad joke bears repeating when it's done in his voice.

[This message has been edited by R. S. Gwynn (edited March 05, 2003).]

[Kevin Andrew Murphy]

It's more than just the "affluence of incohol;" the whole last stanza is poetic cribbing and a retelling of an older bit of humorous verse.

Searched the web for a version. It's not the same as the one I learned in oral tradition, and likely somewhat different than the one Jim heard, but good for comparison:

Ode to Alcohol


Starkle, starkle, little twink,
Who the hell you are I think,
I'm not under what they call
The alcofluence of incohol.
I'm not drunk as thinkle peep,
I'm just a little slort of sheep.
Tee martoonis make a guy
Fool so feelish, don't know why
Rally don't know who's me yet
The drunker I stay the longer I get
So just one more to full my cup,
I've all day sober to Sunday up.

[Jim Hayes]

I a greatly honored by Mr Wilbur's attentions and delight in his comments, including that Mr Wilbur saw fit to read another piece of mine, many thanks indeed Sir.

Thank you also Sam, that comment of yours is one that I shall tresure.

I also appreciate Kevin's attempts to keep me honest, however I assure him, as I do Tim and others, that his efforts are not entirely necessary.

I was totally unaware of the work he posted here for comparison, I never saw it before and having seen it contend I owe it little.

'Poetic cribbing' is a euphemism for plagiarism.
I am not going to defend myself against the accusation of beating my wife, but there are few among us as poets who do not supplement our imaginations with recollections of events and old stories, some almost forgotten and perhaps even subliminal.

This is one such story in my voice, I make no apology for it.

Jim Hayes

[Kevin Andrew Murphy]

Jim,

Apologies for any suggestion of impropriety. I'd thought it was a conscious recasting of oral tradition. On my end, this is part of the merry hell of having a somewhat eidetic memory.

Here's the verse as I learned it (at four):

<cite>Starkle, starkle little twink
who the Hell you are, I think.
I'm not under the alcofluence of incohol
though some thinkle peep I am.
I fool so feelish I don't know who's me yet
and the drunker I sit here the longer I get.</cite>

That's shorter than the one I just found on the net.

If it's any consolation, I named the witch's cat in one of my (published) short stories "Mehitabel," completely unaware of the "Archie and Mehitabel" poems (which my father had read, and likely mentioned some time very early in my memories, which go back to age three). And I once composed what I thought was an original tune until I realized that I'd recreated the Chipmunks Christmas Song.

Sorry,

Kevin

[Terese Coe]

Jim

It's such a joy to see your well-deserved praise from Richard Wilbur and Sam, et al.!

If you haven't yet allowed yourself the joy of reciting this in a public place, you must. I hope to hear it in your Irish voice one day, at least on the net.

Terese