Uncle Crispin Barrington-Spruce
(A Cautionary Tale For P*ss-Artist Aristocrats)
Uncle Crispin Barrington-Spruce
moved in high society,
but had never been formally introduced
to the concept of Sobriety.
The life and the soul of a million marquees,
the figure that couldn’t be missed:
with his strong noble bearing and Harrington tweed
…completely and utterly pissed.
Handled his women as he did his steeds:
called them “Fillies” and asked them to dance;
he rated them, each, by the state of their teeth,
and he’d measure them gamely in Hands.
His money, he naturally spent with panache:
the amount that he owned was obscene,
and though terribly flash, he refused to use cash,
“As you’re never quite sure where it’s been…”
When it came to his health he was blithely blasé:
smoked cigars and avoided the gym:
the nearest he got to his five fruit a day
were the ones in a glassful of Pimm’s.
Then, one summer’s evening, tragedy struck
at a charity ball for the Blind (…Drunk)
Uncle Crispin, pushing his luck, took
it upon himself to imbibe:
four sherries, a perry, two rums and a schnapps,
a skinful of gin, and a scotch,
(Uncle Crispin, perhaps, might have left it at that,
had people not gathered to watch…)
the drinks he was bought, and the ones he was owed
by a number of fellow carousers,
one over the eight, and then one for the road,
and then one each for the pavements and houses,
four brandies, three cognacs, six glasses de vin,
a galleon of Port and a shot
of tequila, or two, and then he began
Te quil over, right there on the spot…
* * *
At his funeral the mourners and dignitaries
raised a toast to this lively “Bon Viveur”
which – according to all the good dictionaries,
roughly translates as “Good Liver”
An irony, which must have seemed so profound
at the inquest they held in the autumn:
“Good Liver” – not quite what the coroners found
when they opened him up for post-mortem…
