Shapes of Clay

Of Hans Pietro Shanahan

(Who was a most ingenious man)

The Muse of History records

That he'd get drunk as twenty lords.

He'd get so truly drunk that men

Stood by to marvel at him when

His slow advance along the street

Was but a vain cycloidal feat.

And when 'twas fated that he fall

With a wide geographical sprawl,

They signified assent by sounds

Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.

And yet this Mr. Shanahan

(Who was a most ingenious man)

Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes

When it was red or otherwise.

All malt, or spirituous, tope

He loathed as cats dissent from soap;

And cider, if it touched his lip,

Evoked a groan at every sip.

But still, as heretofore explained,

He not infrequently was grained.

(I'm not of those who call it "corned."

Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.)

Though truth to say, and that's but right,

Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!)

Was what had put him in the mud,

The only kind he used was blood!

Alas, that an immortal soul

Addicted to the flowing bowl,

The emptied flagon should again

Replenish from a neighbor's vein.

But, Mr. Shanahan was so

Constructed, and his taste that low.

Nor more deplorable was he

In kind of thirst than in degree;

For sometimes fifty souls would pay

The debt of nature in a day

To free him from the shame and pain

Of dread Sobriety's misreign.

His native land, proud of its sense

Of his unique inabstinence,

Abated something of its pride

At thought of his unfilled inside.

And some the boldness had to say

'Twere well if he were called away

To slake his thirst forevermore

In oceans of celestial gore.

But Hans Pietro Shanahan

(Who was a most ingenious man)

Knew that his thirst was mortal; so

Remained unsainted here below—

Unsainted and unsaintly, for

He neither went to glory nor

To abdicate his power deigned

Where, under Providence, he reigned,

But kept his Boss's power accurst

To serve his wild uncommon thirst.

Which now had grown so truly great

It was a drain upon the State.

Soon, soon there came a time, alas!

When he turned down an empty glass—

All practicable means were vain

His special wassail to obtain.

In vain poor Decimation tried

To furnish forth the needful tide;

And Civil War as vainly shed

Her niggard offering of red.

Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased

Until he wished himself deceased,

Invoked the firearm and the knife,

But could not die to save his life!

He was so dry his own veins made

No answer to the seeking blade;

So parched that when he would have passed

Away he could not breathe his last.

'Twas then, when almost in despair,

(Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair)

He saw as in a dream a way

To wet afresh his mortal clay.

Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan

(Who was a most ingenious man)

Saw freedom, and with joy and pride

"Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried.

Straight to the Aldermen went he,

With many a "pull" and many a fee,

And many a most corrupt "combine"

(The Press for twenty cents a line

Held out and fought him—O, God, bless

Forevermore the holy Press!)

Till he had franchises complete

For trolley lines on every street!

The cars were builded and, they say,

Were run on rails laid every way—

Rhomboidal roads, and circular,

And oval—everywhere a car—

Square, dodecagonal (in great

Esteem the shape called Figure 8)

And many other kinds of shapes

As various as tails of apes.

No other group of men's abodes

E'er had such odd electric roads,

That winding in and winding out,

Began and ended all about.

No city had, unless in Mars,

That city's wealth of trolley cars.

They ran by day, they flew by night,

And O, the sorry, sorry sight!

And Hans Pietro Shanahan

(Who was a most ingenious man)

Incessantly, the Muse records,

Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords!