Noble executors of the munificent testament

Of the late John Simon Guggenheim, distinguished bunch

Of benefactors, there are certain kinds of men

Who set their hearts on being bartenders,

For whom a life upon duck-boards, among fifths,

Tapped kegs and lemon twists, crowded with lushes

Who can master neither their bladders nor consonants,

Is the only life, greatly to be desired.

There’s the man who yearns for the White House, there to compose

Rhythmical lists of enemies, while someone else

Wants to be known to the Tour d’Argent’s head waiter.

As the Sibyl of Cumae said: It takes all kinds.

Nothing could bribe your Timon, your charter member

Of the Fraternal Order of Grizzly Bears to love

His fellow, whereas it’s just the opposite

With interior decorators; that’s what makes horse races.

One man may have a sharp nose for tax shelters,

Screwing the IRS with mirth and profit;

Another devote himself to his shell collection,

Deaf to his offspring, indifferent to the feast

With which his wife hopes to attract his notice.

Some at the Health Club sweating under bar bells

Labor away like grunting troglodytes,

Smelly and thick and inarticulate,

Their brains squeezed out through their pores by sheer exertion.

As for me, the prize for poets, the simple gift

For amphybrachs strewn by a kind Euterpe,

With perhaps a laurel crown of the evergreen

Imperishable of your fine endowment

Would supply my modest wants, who dream of nothing

But a pad on Eighth Street and your approbation.