CúChulainn Battles the Reigning Beer Pong Champion

It is well-known that the Record archives are filled with surprises—surprises one should dispose of properly, using latex gloves and strict biohazard protocol. Yet even I was astonished to find, nestled in a file cabinet beneath a Sexy Dinosaur costume, this hitherto unheard of draft by none other than the great William Butler Yeats.

Composed in 1885 and intended for inclusion with his other poems about the great Celtic hero CúChulainn, this draft was lost after Yeats visited New Haven and spent a typical night out with the Record’s editorial board. Now, over a century later, we are proud to publish, for the first time ever, W. B. Yeats’s “CúChulainn Battles the Reigning Beer Pong Champion.”

When all CúChulainn’s battles seemed yet won
And every Irish mother’s blood-soaked son
Returned at last to his home tavern dear,
To peaceful drink—then did CúChulainn fear
That yet on one front he had not been tested.
He raged. And once his loyal crew had rested,
CúChulainn led them, fiercely armed, to DKE,
The Reigning Beer Pong Champion there to seek.

On the fraternity’s front porch he sat,
The Reigning Champion, leader of the frat,
The very president of DKE, a man
Who with one paw could crush a Bud Light can.
He knew the reason for CúChulainn’s trip,
And raising a cool forty to his lip,
He thus addressed the mighty Irish lord:

“We both know that I’ve never borne a sword
In battle or sport. And even I’ll admit
I never exercise my weakling wit.
But in one field there’s none who can compete
With me—save maybe you. And so we meet.

“O son of Eire, I know why you have come:

’Til me you were of all fields Champion,
Lord of the sky and sea, the hill and plain,
Of thumb wars, cook-offs, beauty pageants fain.
But you have yet to beat me in Beer Pong.”

CúChulainn nodded, and it was not long
Before each pyramid of cups was set
With shots—two!—of the purest grain. So met
These mighty men. The rules arranged, the game
Began.
CúChulainn took his sober aim,
Roaring with pride as the ball sailed across,
Though next he’d take a shot. Toss after toss,
For several adept rounds, the men drank up
Their stuff. And then it struck: the first missed cup.
Cuchulainn raged; he screamed for a re-rack
So loudly that the wall still bears a crack
From his fierce fit of spleen. The match went on.
For hours straight, they fought, staggering, through dawn,
Suffering the grain. With every swatted ball,
The lurching lush fell, swinging with his all
And slipping on the beer-wet floor.

And so
CúChulainn chanced to finally oust his foe.
He rallied all his might and all his mind
To get his double vision to align,
To quell the nausea rising from below,
To stand, to see, to balance, and to throw.

Wondrous! CúChulainn’s mighty toss prevailed!
Wondrous! The Champion’s cups he all assailed!
He knelt in thanks and triumph—and he hurled.
He spewed a sea, then fainted. All the world
Shuddered beneath his crash. Then, to the West,
Eire mourned her Beer Pong Champion to his rest.

—M. Taylor

Check out the rest of the Myth and Legend issue here!