Owain Glyn

The Temperance Club - Poem by Owain Glyn

A Welshman and two Irishmen
Went into a pub
said Patrick to the barman
'Is this the Temperance Club? '

'Of course it's not, you Leprechaun'
'What we sell is beer'
'Okay we might just have one'
'Now that we are here.'

Well, one turned into many
And they lost all track of time
The beer was just like nectar
And the pickled eggs, sublime.

They fell to playing poker
Throwing cash into the pot
The Welshman had a Royal Flush
And so he won the lot.

When it came to closing time
The barman threw them out
The Temperance Club was closed by now
Of that there was no doubt.

Instead they found another club
Where ladies got undressed
Patrick said 'just look at them! '
The Welshman was impressed.

They handed over money
And found a grubby chair
Bought some very bad champagne
And watched the ladies bare.

But they ran out of money
And the doorman made them leave
Now they had to walk back home
And make their wives believe;

That they'd spent the day in abstinence
And truly signed the pledge
Instead of smelling like a still
And crawling through a hedge.

Things did not go quite as planned
Their wives were not amused
The felt as if they'd been let down
In fact, they felt abused.

Decisions must be taken
Of that there was no doubt
And after much discussion
Their wives just threw them out.

If in your weaker moments
You decide to give up drink
Imagine sleeping in the park
And have another think! !
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ - -

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

A lesson in what can happen when you become distracted from your original purpose.

Comments about The Temperance Club by Owain Glyn

  • David Mclansky (1/16/2013 5:40:00 AM)

    Praise for The Temperance Club

    I think it cruel
    And not too funny
    That a Welshman’s luck
    Runs out with money;
    That the naked doxy
    Sitting on my lap
    Fat and poxy
    Smelling of the clap,
    Throws me out
    With a naval cheer,
    ‘Cause I’m short a pound
    For a round of beer;

    As I turn to home,
    My heart is broken,
    She loved not me
    Though the words were spoken;
    How I wish I were
    A man of wealth
    And not a married man
    Poor born and Welsh.

    Irish women
    Make better wives
    Famous for
    Their grandeur size;
    Their hearts are bigger,
    They’re more forgiving
    So’s their liver,
    They believe our lies.

    So I tell myself
    As I stagger home
    She'll be honey on the shelf
    Once I get her prone.
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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, January 16, 2013

Poem Edited: Wednesday, January 16, 2013

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