Obadiah Murphy could set them up and toss them back,
Double shots of Smirnoff, Tanqueray and Johnny Walker Black;
which he would chase with buckets filled with beer, quite tart and pale,
and uncounted long stemmed glasses full of wine and ginger ale.
So Murphy made his living from rich travelers at the inn,
toothsome fellows with deep pockets and proclivity for gin.
With nothing much to do at night, they’d hit the pub by eight.
And at Murphy’s nod, his cronies would commence to set the bait.
“You seem to have capacity,” someone would offer up.
“Now, we’ve got a fellow, Murphy, who knows how to tip the cup.”
The fool would ask, “Where’s Murphy?” And the shills would point him out.
Obadiah then would show himself; the perfect drunken lout.
Murphy let the stranger tout capacities and talents,
then turn his nose, and offered up, “But what hangs in the balance?”
“A touch of cash to prove the point?” “I like the way that sounds!”
Then far too late, the stranger found he’d spread one thousand pounds.
Drinks would come; the challenger eventually would falter,
but Murphy never ever slowed, as steady as Gibraltar.
When eyes would glaze and chin would sag and knees would find the floor,
a sober Obadiah raised his glass and called out, “More!”
But one windy, wintry night Murphy’s legend fell apart,
and the tool of his destruction was an errant hurled dart.
A tipsy Bob O’Grady touched the bar maid on her thigh,
as he aimed that fletched and pointed shaft and set to let it fly.
Sweet Gloria, the bar maid, took exception to that tap,
so she whaled on Bobby’s cheekbone, with a wild left-handed slap.
The errant dart struck Murphy’s shin a strange and echoing thud,
and the liquid that oozed from the wound was not the red of blood.
One local gasped in horror; Murphy moaned, but not in pain,
and to sobered heads about the pub the truth at last was plain.
Fey knowledge raced from tongue to ear. “Murphy is a cheat!”
Then it scurried out, to run the streets, on swift and wing’ed feet.
Opinion, razor edged and mean, butchered Obadiah.
Before the world revolved once more he was the town’s pariah.
The truth lay bared, to one and all, ’bout Mister Murphy’s peg,
for he could not hold his booze, you see, without his hollow leg.
K.C. Ball is a retired newspaper reporter and media relations coordinator. She lives in Seattle, a stone’s throw from Puget Sound, with the love of her life and two demanding cats. She writes because if she doesn’t she’ll just burst.
13 Responses to “MURPHY’S FLAW • by K.C. Ball”
Comments
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November 10th, 2008 at 1:18 am
A rollicking tale, KC! The meter and whatnot (I’m not a poet, can you tell?) were perfect for the voice here, a real sozzled effect coming through. Loved it and gave it five.
November 10th, 2008 at 5:54 am
Sorry, All, about the last stanza. The chance to rhyme Obadiah and pariah was just too good to pass up.
K.C.
November 10th, 2008 at 8:46 am
Hee! I really enjoyed this. A funny story and nice word choice, meter, and rhyme. Well done, K.C.!
November 10th, 2008 at 8:50 am
[...] on over to Every Day Poets this morning and read “Murphy’s Flaw” by K.C. Ball. It’s a hoot — you’ll love it! And the meter and rhyme of the [...]
November 10th, 2008 at 10:27 am
Good work keeping the rhyme going for so long. what does it remind me of? Maybe Edward Lear?
November 10th, 2008 at 11:50 am
Very fun
November 10th, 2008 at 11:55 am
A nice up-beat poem for a Monday, K C. Thank you for putting a smile on our faces
November 10th, 2008 at 12:31 pm
I’ve just read this after a hard day at work and a long commute home. Absolutely great humour skilfully deployed! You’ve put a bounce back in my step and made me smile. Thank you.
Cheers
Mark
November 10th, 2008 at 12:34 pm
K.C.’s poem made me smile and laugh on a beautiful Monday morning.
November 10th, 2008 at 3:54 pm
Robin:
When I attempt a long story-telling poem like this, I have a trio of poems in mind. Casey at the Bat by Ernest Thayer is always first; it is my favorite. But I am also a big fan of The Lion and Albert, by Marriot Edgar, and The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, by J. Milton Hayes.
If you aren’t familiar with them, and like this format, look them up. You won’t be disappointed.
And thank you all for you very kind comments.
November 11th, 2008 at 12:24 am
I loved this sooooo much. Superbly written in the style of the old ballads. Perfect rhythm and metre; gave it a five!
November 11th, 2008 at 6:46 am
Great poem.
November 11th, 2008 at 1:33 pm
This one is all kinds of fun. Thanks, K.C.!