I’ve lead this nation through its greatest
Civil unrest,
Like the last hand left clapping at
Curtain call,
I stand tall, a little too tall, stove pipe
Black hat,
Huzzahs and here here’s, I’ve had
My share,
And my critics would rather load
Their revolver,
Than blow buckshot with their brains
And tongue,
Which is why I’m stuck inside my own mind,
Comatose, near death, and all I can think of is my
Little boy.
White walls, white women, and shit in my
Bed pan,
Through my shattered cranium, I can still see
And think,
Slack jawed and glaze eyed, this isn’t right on
My son’s
21st birthday, who will be there
To buy
His first beer, or cool glass of
Rum punch,
Mary Todd abstains from the savage
Fire water,
So Edward, knobby kneed now, please tell
Me who?
To share a malted Schlitz, or fine Pabst
Blue ribbon,
To teach you the proper way a man sips
The foam,
How to crush the julep leaf before crushing
It in,
Your table will be full of well wishers and
Whiskey drinkers,
Your belly will be full of well whiskey and
Sour mash,
Your woman, how beautiful she will be,
Glossy eyed,
Your brothers, yes, your companions will
Be there,
Alas your dear ol’ Dad will not be present for
The speech,
As I have addressed so many
Times before,
But you can tell the story, of fore score and seven
Beers ago,
Your father lay vegetated, weak, tired
Of dying,
With the thoughts of honey hops and
Bitter barley,
The sweet wheat, and your transformation
Into manhood,
You’ll be as lonesome and lost as the
Bloody Confederacy,
Child, know that your father can not tell
A lie,
That on that day, I will be tapping
A barrel,
In the land beyond the sky, stirring the foam,
Humming happy birthday.