Each day old Barney at lunch,
Would sit with a bowl of spiked punch.
With tea cup aloft,
Would take a great draught,
Then on salt pretzels he'd munch.
A pipe he would smoke only half,
As the stories he told made him laugh.
He recounted the time,
Almost cuffed for a crime,
And hauled away by a gaff.
Seems the landlord disliked his ways,
As home from the pub in a haze,
Barney would stumble,
And with the keys fumble,
Scratching the door in his daze.
So the police, on call, came around,
On inspection officiously frowned,
Declared it OK,
For Barney to stay,
If on his entry he made less sound.
So his door will forever be sketched
With artistry Barney has etched.
This story he'll tell,
He remembers it well,
He opened the door and he wretched.
It's not a great story, that's true,
But for Barney it's nothing to rue.
He sits in his chair
With narry a care
And drinks his spiked punch 'till he's blue.
© 2003 Thomas A. Ekkens
This poem appears in our chapbook entitled How Could I Be Blue?