I wrote The Ballad of Darryl O'Day in the mid-nineties in response to a challenge to write a beer-drinking poem. I've performed the piece dozens of times including in theatrical settings and at a national performance poetry competition (I scored well).
I have a half-dozen other pieces of this rousing sort of narrative poetry. This one has been my most popular.
The Ballad of Darryl O'Day
There’s a legend that’s told in the neighborhood pubs,
In the smoke-filled gin joints and the posh country clubs,
In the places beer flows, be it froth or in dregs,
They say Darryl O’Day is the king of the kegs.
Now Darryl was sixty but still keeping fit;
His house by the brewer kept a hose joined to it.
With his kidneys still fearsome, his balance still fine:
When he chewed on a grape he could spit it out wine.
Yet, a decade had past since he’d fought for his title
And a rumor went ’round that Darryl ‘d grown idle.
Soon a brewhead named Stuart came after his throne.
From outside Darryl’s window he made his claim known.
He cried to the world, “It’s come time to acknowledge,
A new king’s in town, I’m the champ of my college.
I maintain Darryl’s finished, his panties are silk.
His head’s full of glue and he drinks buttermilk!”
Darryl hadn’t much words and had even less fear,
He said, “Let’s settle this now, I’ve a brewery right here.”
But Stu didn’t answer: his visage fell flat.
He drank from the hose then he turned and he spat.
First his face gave a twitch, then his neck made some twists,
His eyes became snakes and his hands became fists.
What was stewing in Stu only Stuart could say.
“This sissy-stuff brew, I could drink it all day.
If you want a real test,” Stuart sneered in his anger.
Then you’ll come meet me down at the aeroplane hangar!”
What could Darryl do if not take up the bait?
With the town at his side he went after his fate.
He marched out to the hangar to meet with his peril:
A foul bubbling cauldron, a twelve foot beer barrel.
‘Twas an ale beyond pale, ’twas a beer so unfit,
It wore through the tongue that swore upon it.
A fermented, demented toxic waste lager
Made part from old boots, and part gutter declogger.
Stuart paused to inhale, and then, licking his chops,
With a skip and a jump he went after those hops.
He chugged down eight quarts, and a pint and a gulp
‘Til his legs turned to rubber, his brain to a pulp.
Soon swaying, displaying his snarl with a gat,
Still standing, demanding, said, “Darryl beat that.”
Darryl sucked in his belly and tightened his bladder
Then strolled to the wall where he set up a ladder.
With pretzel in teeth he climbed up to the rafters:
The crowd half in cheers and the other half laughter.
His mouth opened widely, the daredevil Darryl
Took a leap from his perch to plunge into the barrel.
He drank as he swam and he swam as he drank
He made it look easy while draining that tank.
On down to a puddle he guzzled and slurped
Then said, “What, no more?” out of grieving, he burped.
Then he sucked dry his clothes until no longer damp.
Just one drip remained: he who challenged the champ.
The crowd at first gasped, then hoorayed with a clangor
And even Stu cheered from the floor of the hangar.
Throughout this wide world you’ll find fools who are talky
But there’s damned few out there who can walk the Milwaukee.
So, wherever men teeter with wobbly legs
They say Darryl O’Day is the king of the kegs.
Along with poetry, Martin Hill Ortiz is the author of three mystery novels and nearly fifty published short stories.
More of his work can be found through mdhillortiz.com
