He kicked the bar door open, and stepped into the place,
He didn't see it swinging back, and it smacked him in the face;

They picked him up and brushed him down, and sat him in a chair,
He told 'em all to go to hell, he said he didn't care.

He strode up to the bar, and slumped upon a stool,
The beer upon the counter was lying in a pool;
And of course he had to rest his arm in all the slops and booze,
And it trickled off his elbows onto patent-leather shoes.

Well, he screamed and raved and ranted, and the manager rushed in,
And put away his troubles with a fourteen-carat grin;
Cleaned and dried his shirt sleeves, and wiped his sloppy shoes,
Sat him on another stool, and asked which drink he'd choose.

"Give me a Bloody Bewdy!" My God, this bloke was brave!
The last poor chap who ordered that is lying in his grave;
The poor old barmaid fainted and the cleaner caught his breath,
To drink a Bloody Bewdy was inviting certain death.

A tremor of voices swept through the bar, the drinkers crowded around,
Then everyone was deadly quiet, not a single sound;
Astonishment was on the face of disbelieving blokes,
Old Charlie, in the corner, hollered "Ten to One he Croaks!"

The manager was hoping hard the stranger was just faking,
He took a clean glass from the rack, his hand was badly shaking;
"Well hurry up - I've not all day!" the stranger's voice was thunder!
The barman jumped a full three feet, the crowd all gasped in wonder.

The manager poured in the gin, his head was going numb,
His hands they shook and spilt the scotch, and then he dropped the rum;

The vodka looked quite potent and you should have smelt the schnapps!
The whisky was a nice old age, the stranger licked his chops.

And then he picked the drink up - decision - life or death?
The upstairs maid was gasping, the cook just held his breath;
He put it to his lips and sniffed - a connoisseur of drink?
They waited for the moment, no-one dared to blink.

He swallowed it - in one great gulp - and sat back on his chair,
Everybody waited, death was in the air!
The manger was silent, the two bell boys were still,
The poor old upstairs desk clerk had fainted on the till!

Some shearers in the corner thought it all was rather funny,
They'd bet he wouldn't make it, and were thinking of their money;
They were waiting for the pains to start, to hear him cry for his mother,
The stranger put the glass down, and said one word - "Another!"

The crowd then burst out cheering, and each one shook his hand,
The manager yealled "A Party!" and went to find the band;
And they toasted to the stranger, though they said he was mad, like Nero,
But mad, insane, or just plain stupid, he was still their hero.

They talk about it even now, the old blokes still remember,
That hot and humid Friday night in the middle of December;
In the normally quiet, peaceful town of North-East Bongaloodi,
When the stranger walked into the bar - and drank a bloody Bewdy.

more of my FUNNY POEMS here