On this day of Thanksgiving, I give everyone this odd, original poem about a little boy and the creation of a future drunk.THE SECRET SOCIETY
OF BOURBON DRINKERSEvery other night they convened
to talk about whatever.
Be it the Yeti,
price of Gold, horses
or who was on Carson,
they’d yap it up together.
And all over Kentucky’s sweet nectar.
I was about eight or so when I
attended my first gathering.
My uncle snuck me into the back
door of this backwoods juke joint
and plopped me in a torn corner booth
with a folded up Richie Rich comic.
After visiting ‘Ol Phil at the bar
my uncle gave me this sweet red drink.
At the time he called it a “Popeye”
but let’s face facts, I was riding
the Good Ship Lollipop.
After making sure I was settled
he patted me on the head and joined
the fellas. I just stared.
They all seemed so very loud.
One of them kept flicking his
suspenders every time he laughed.
Another didn’t say a word but just
pointed in agreement every time someone
made a point. The leader, or so it
seemed, wore a monocle and every five
minutes or so would look over to me
and nod, making sure I was still with them.
About an hour -- or three Popeyes later,
I was called over to the men. The leader
had me sit on his lap and I looked
for my uncle who was in the two o clock
position. All I really remember now is the smell
of the place – a pungent concoction
of talcum, cigar and tobacco, musk
and bourbon.
Lots of bourbon.
He told me that it was a special night
because I was becoming a special member
of their sacred club. He poured a small
amount into a shot glass and, in an almost
slow motion, slid it over to me.
After the hellfire of the spirit slid
down my young throat all I could think
about was getting another one of those
godforsaken Popeye drinks. But I was now a
member and Phil would have to listen to
me for the rest of my life.
