A poem the I occasionally do at circles

John Barleycorn’s Revenge

There were three men, three kings of cups

and from the West did fly

with fierce and cruel intentions that

John Barleycorn must die

They cut him down and spread him out

They plowed him broke and torn

But fools they were, did not expect

Revenge of Barleycorn

They ground his bones to bake their bread

His blood they drank as ale

But John returned by sunny June

Thus goes our gruesome tale

The first King he, a farmer be

He drank from dusk till morn

He woke up in a porcine sty

Revenge of Barleycorn

The second King, a miller man

loved whisky over all

They found him in an alley

In pieces from a brawl

The third King was a holy monk

And passed out cruciform

He had no prayers, only swears

Against John Barleycorn

And everyman that drank John’s blood

They cheered in starts and fits

Feeling rather cavalier

But left all limp of wit

So bless the sacred barley, dear

And drink, but I must warn

That ill-got juice has consequence

Revenge of Barleycorn