They frightened me, they daunted me; I turned back to the stair, And faced nine keyholes pale and stern That lay in ambush there. Six keyholes on the ceiling sat, Eight keyholes on the door, And seven saddened keyholes lay Hiccoughing on the floor. I crawled through one, I crawled through two, I crawled through keyholes three-- And then I saw a vistaed mile Of keyholes waiting me!-- “I will not crawl another yard Through keyholes, though I die!”-- Oh, when my fighting blood is up A Turk am. They leapt at me, they flew at me, They whistled as they came, They gritted of their gleaming teeth, They stung and spurted flame; I put my back against the floor And fought 'em gallantly--? But what could anybody do With one small key? Keyholes at the front of me, And keyholes on the flank, And as they rushed at me I smelled The liquor that they drank; Keyholes on my spinal cord, And keyholes in my hair-- And with a “Heave together, boys!” They rolled me down the stair. It bumped me some, it bent me some, It broke a nose or two, And when the milkman came, he said: “What Kaiser Belgiumed you?” I says to him: “It might have been The same with you as me If you like me had had to fight A gang of keyholes all last night With one small key!” XVIII--IN A TAVERN BOOTH To Sam McCoy I thought a Sun pursued; through endless space I fled the following thunder of his feet; Snorting he came, his breath a withering heat, Blown soot of cindered comets freakt his face; My hide caught fire and crackled with the pace, My burning heart with jets of anguish beat; Flaming I leapt, in flame leapt on the fleet And savage star . . . We slashed our fiery trace Ten constellations broad in screaming red Across the startled purple of the night; A word tremendous clove mine ears and head, A great arm fell and stripped my wings of flight: “Hey, Mister, pay your check!” a brute voice said. It was a red-haired barkeep known as Ed. XIX--YEARNINGS AND MEMORIES To Jimmy Fisher Liquor there is--but how I miss the Bar! I miss a certain attitude of mind, Congenial, which I seek but never find Except beneath the golden triple star Which from the brandy bottle shines afar. I miss a type of jest that was designed For roaring barrooms warmed with booze, and kind-- Good Gawd! how coarse and low my real tastes are. I miss an ambling, splay-foot waiter's beak, Which like some red peninsula of hell Glowed through the humming barroom's smoky reek-- I miss the lies I used to hear men tell Over the telephone to waiting wives-- What sweet aromas had these joyous lives!