The Fountain Refilled

Of Hans Pietro Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)The Muse of History recordsThat he'd get drunk as twenty lords.

He'd get so truly drunk that menStood by to marvel at him whenHis slow advance along the streetWas but a vain cycloidal feat.

And when 'twas fated that he fallWith a wide geographical sprawl,They signified assent by soundsHeard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.

And yet this Mr. Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)Cast not on wine his thirsty eyesWhen it was red or otherwise.

All malt, or spirituous, topeHe 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 soulAddicted to the flowing bowl,The emptied flagon should againReplenish from a neighbor's vein.

But, Mr. Shanahan was soConstructed, and his taste that low.Nor more deplorable was heIn kind of thirst than in degree;

For sometimes fifty souls would payThe debt of nature in a dayTo free him from the shame and painOf dread Sobriety's misreign.

His native land, proud of its senseOf his unique inabstinence,Abated something of its prideAt thought of his unfilled inside.

And some the boldness had to say'Twere well if he were called awayTo slake his thirst forevermoreIn oceans of celestial gore.

But Hans Pietro Shanahan(Who was a most ingenious man)Knew that his thirst was mortal; soRemained unsainted here below--

Unsainted and unsaintly, forHe neither went to glory norTo abdicate his power deignedWhere, under Providence, he reigned,

But kept his Boss's power accurstTo serve his wild uncommon thirst.Which now had grown so truly greatIt was a drain upon the State.

Soon, soon there came a time, alas!When he turned down an empty glass--All practicable means were vainHis special wassail to obtain.

In vain poor Decimation triedTo furnish forth the needful tide;And Civil War as vainly shedHer niggard offering of red.

Poor Shanahan! his thirst increasedUntil 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 madeNo answer to the seeking blade;So parched that when he would have passedAway 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 wayTo 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, blessForevermore the holy Press!)Till he had franchises completeFor 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 greatEsteem the shape called Figure 8)And many other kinds of shapesAs various as tails of apes.

No other group of men's abodesE'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!