THERHYME

Despite his basically rather reclusive nature, Carl Barks was not in any way restrained when the vast subject of Art became the topic. All Barks fans know very well of his numerous feats in many corners of the art world, but few know about his interest in poetry. This website already has several pages, in which he presented quite diverse sides of his talents in this field*, and this page presents you to yet another example. It originates from The Calgary EyeOpener, the girlie magazine where Barks worked from 1928 to 1935, and it was published in the November 1930 issue.
It may not come across as being the most impressive and eloquent poem, but there can be little doubt that Barks had a lyrical streak on top of all his other talents. Pay attention to the novel idea of the bartender mixing a very special drink for a very fussy guest; years later this overall idea was used in several short, animated cartoons!

* Examples: Two short poems in The Angels, several twists on well known poems in The Lyrics, personalized lyrics in The Music (third section), and a rather harsh social commentary written with his wife in The Poem.

It was the eve before morning; the round had been drunk,
And all the star moochers, to their corners had slunk.
When out of the night, that was blacker than coal,
There staggered a traveler, who called for his bowl.

The bartender sighed and mixed up a 'shake,'
Of the awfulest ingredients prohibition could make.
It smoked when he spilled a few drops on the bar.
And he laughed as he set up an earthenware jar.

The crowd gathered 'round; not willing to miss
The sight of a man drinking stuff that could hiss.
But the fall they expected was never to come;
That guy mulled the toddy like a steno chews gum.
He blinked not a lash as he said with a sneer,
'I guess you must think I'm askin' for beer;

But I want a hot one, I'm telling you plain,
Or I'll unwrap your tripe with my opery house cane.'
The bartender trembled; he was used to 'em tough,
But here was one hombre, who surely was rough.
He drew on his mittens and rubbed them with salt;
then stepped to the safe and blew open the vault.

Ere the smoke cleared away he put on his mask,
And armed with long tongs he reached for the flask.
For that bottle was heaving; its sides glowing red,
No doubt that its contents would go to the head.
The tough patron grunted and scarce raised his browse.
'Where I'm from,' he sneered, 'we get that from the cows.'

'Wait till you drink it,' was the bardog's retort,
As he burned off the stopper with an acetylene torch.
The guy raised the slug; he took but one whiff,
His ears turned to ashes; his nose to 'roaz beef,'
His tonsils bobbed twice, then exploded like rockets
As he collapsed on the floor with his knees in his pockets.

The barkeep looked 'round him; not a soul in the place,
But he and the tough, who lay flat on his face.
He slipped 'round to the figure and knelt there a while,
Then rose with a wallet; his face all a-smile.
He wrote in his ledger when he'd finished his task,
'One thousand bucks credit to the mule in the iron flask.'