The Pickling of Joe McGee
by Ed Meyo
... with apologies to Robert Service
who is dead and in no position to sue, fortunately
There are strange acts seen
In the hour between the last orders and the sun
On the southeast side where the streets ain't wide,
In a pub when the work is done.
The smoke-dimmed lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Came that night last May in the pouring grey
When we pickled Joe McGee.
Near Tabor's hill you can get your fill
Of English beer and grub, in a dark, woody place,
When the rats run his race
Is the inn called the Horse Brass Pub.
It's a small spot and plain in the city of rain,
Yet some come from afar if they can.
The owner takes pride in the spirit inside,
'Tis a job for a Younger man.
There's a regular crew who go there for their brew
A group with a code of their own,
They're an odd enough band but they're willing to stand
By a pal when he's feeling alone.
People come and they go and you just never know
Of the diamonds here in the rough.
How it turned out this way, no one really can say,
But it did and that's good enough.
What year ago we first saw Joe
Was a fact few could recall,
Day after day, he would come in and stay
On a stool beside the wall.
A well-preserved man with a permanent tan,
He stayed to himself at first,
But it didn't seem long that he came to belong
And we learned of his dreadful thirst ...
We admired his style
Still we talked all the while of his vast capacity,
Beer after beer, each would soon disappear
With unique regularity.
Two pints of brew, then a trip to the loo,
He repeated this steady refrain.
Ol' Joe, he could drink the way Einstein could think,
Yet it never besotted his brain.
I remember the date of the evening of late
I'd been throwing some darts against Grizz
It was close to two, with nothing to do,
I just took a seat next to his.
Joe didn't look good as he slowly stood
And spoke to the few of us there,
"I would just like to say a few words if I may,
There's a story I've needed to share."
"My friends," said he, "I am sure you agree
That my drinking is one for the books."
Mike would pull on his briar, too polite to inquire ...
Others, too, I could tell from their looks.
"Someone buy me a beer, and you'll all get to hear,"
he said with an ominous sigh.
"It's made for a life with a bit of fair strife,
Really. Hell, why would I lie?
"I think that it's due to the place where I grew;
No water, you understand.
It's far from here, bleak dry and sere,
Just wastes, scrub brush and sand.
Well I left from there to find someplace where
Life wasn't so goddamned parched.
I had to look; many years it's took.
My God! The miles I've marched.
"I learned in time that whatever the time,
I could drink 'til I might burst.
A watering trough of fluids I'd quaff,
But none would quench my thirst.
Only one thing came near and that thing was beer
It quickly became my crusade.
It is here in the West that I ended my quest,
I came here. I liked it. I stayed.
"The gods gave me one gift: however many I lift,
My mind stays amazingly clear
I believe this because I just can't get a buzz,
Beer after beer after beer.
The optimal glass I found here at the Brass
An imperial pint drawn by Clay,
Though I'd like to get high, my mouth always feels dry
That's the reason I drink this way.
"Now a vision's come clear that my end's drawing near,
There's a favor I must ask of you.
Is there some way that here, amid friends, amid beer,
You could plant me when my time is through?
It is cool here and dark and far from the stark
And parching rays of the sun,
I could happily die if I'd never be dry
In what follows when my days are done.
"There's no one behind to bury this rind
When I shortly go to my fate.
I've no family, so the state will get me,
They'll save money, they'll just cremate.
When my body is trash, I don't want to be ash;
For me no dust to dust.
If I've got to be dead, why not buried instead?
Someplace quiet down under the crust.
"Please honor my plea and do this for me,
A promise is all that I need.
If you pledge your word-doesn't matter how slurred,
I think I will finally be freed."
Joe looked at each one and before he was done,
We had promised to do our best.
A scant minute had passed before Joe breathed his last,
Just belched once and went to his rest.
Clay first called the boss and told him of the loss;
Don said that he'd be right down.
True to his word he came quick as a bird,
Joe still gripped his Newcastle Brown.
Then began a debate 'bout the one who sat late
And the strange request he'd made.
We didn't know how, but we'd all made a vow
That just couldn't be betrayed.
The answer came slow, then it just seemed to grow
As Don stared at the main entrance planks.
"Up near the door, underneath the wood floor,
Lie a couple of old oil tanks.
Been empty for years," he said between beers,
"I bet they're still here if we look.
We could use one to hide McGee's body inside-
No one knows that they're under the nook."
The idea was good, so we pulled up the wood
And set about digging Joe's grave,
Like armadillos we dug, the dirt heaped on the rug
And we soon had a vertical cave.
There came a loud CLANK! We'd located a tank!
It was time now to insert our dead.
Inside of the tun-free at last of the sun
We laid Joe McGee to bed.
Before we could plug the hole we had dug,
Rick said, "We're not finished yet.
I think that if I had lived my life dry,
I'd sure like to finish it wet.
There's plenty of room to pour beer in Joe's tomb;
Were he here I'm sure he'd agree."
So as the dark night grew increasingly light,
We pickled Joe McGee.
We quickly then filled the hole we had drilled;
Of the pit you could not see a trace.
After pounding it flat as a slow-dodging cat,
The floorboards were laid into place.
We were all in a funk (and not a little bit drunk)
So I mumbled a bleary so long.
Rick gave me a ride and though both of us tried,
We just couldn't feel we'd done wrong.
That was some months ago and now when the taps flow
Of a night at a vigorous rate,
If you sit very still, and listen you will hear
A call from beyond if you wait ...
For at two, when the bell of last call sounds its knell,
You can hear a sound from-well, down.
It's the voice of McGee, his spirit now free,
"A pint, please, of Newcastle Brown."
There are strange acts seen
In the hour between the last orders and the sun
On the southeast side where the streets ain't wide,
In a pub when the work is done.
The smoke-dimmed lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Came that night last May in the pouring grey
When we pickled Joe McGee.