Poetry of the Insane - The Ballad of John Guggenheim

A baby was born near the docks
that refused his mother's breast.
Several of her attempts had failed
until she found gin was best.

Seem'd alcohol soothed the lad,
A welcome cure for colic.
Quieted the boy although
he became alcoholic.

Guggenheim was the name you'd find
outside their apartment door.
John, they named this boy who drank,
always clamoring for more.

A large bar tab by six years old
kept his family on the run.
His addiction grew like a fire
rivalling the morning sun.

Since a teen on a sailing ship,
he always outdrunk his mates.
His legend grew ‘cross Seven Seas
winning contests, tempting fate.

Seasoned drinkers were no match,
Outdrunk by John day and night.
while John challenged another,
scotch in left hand, rum his right.

All the alcohol he'd consumed,
if put in a single glass,
it would even make our God drunk
and then knock Him on His ass.

A man by the name of Black Bart
Who did shots of beer with kegs
had a harpoon stuck in his back
and an ivory peg leg.

He smelled of rotted tuna fish
and spit out a blackish phlegm.
His parrot had an eye patch and
a curved hook for a limb.

Seagull droppings were on his coat;
shark's blood was on his fingers.
When he moved from spot to spot,
his foul stench still would linger.

“I've heard of ye, John Guggenheim,”
poking John with his sabre.
“Never lost have I in drinking.
I'm here to make a wager.”

John was too polite to refuse
and suffer indignation.
“Anytime and anyplace, Bart!”
John said with consternation.

Bart proposed a Battle Royale
betting his vessel as the stakes
The stage was set at the Black Crow
at the Land Between the Lakes.

Each took turns and downed their grog,
hours passed into days.
Empty bottles formed a pile
and blocked the alleyway.

Each man there appeared no stopping;
bitter liquids kept going down.
Suddenly after one week's war,
Bart slumped onto the ground.

Cheers arose across the tavern.
John was lifted in their arms.
Several women approached him now;
John experienced their charms.

John took his prize and sailed the world
sampling all types of brews.
His drinking prowess was so keen;
He headlined the nation's news.

At age 60, he settled down,
a captain's daughter for his wife.
After trying to change poor John,
she, from Christmas goose, drew a knife.

Like vicious banshee she would strike
slashing over and over.
John was stunned, gave little fight;
in battle he was sobered.

The scene there was most horrendous;
tragic end for John, the louse.
The moral here may seem queer:
Drink plenty, but take no spouse!