Archive for June, 2009

h1

Adventurers Club Poetry by Fletcher Hodges

20 June 2009

Kazoo_Fletcher_2

I keep meaning to post one well-considered essay or another on a topic of some depth—The Devil in a Atheistic World; Pervasive Tastelessness; Facebook Bacon—but my muse has been beaten up yet again by that schoolyard bully procrastination.

Instead, I offer a handful of poems I composed in the Adventurers Club character of Fletcher Hodges about himself and other club denizens. I enjoyed doing these, and one should hold more firmly to the good memories than the rest, yes? Hey, there’s another blog topic. For some other time.

Me

Which is richer? Bunch of butchers,

Lots of lechers, or a kvetcher?

Neither!

Clutch of creatures and a touch of teacher—

Such is Fletcher

Otis T. Wren’s Limerick

If you’re searching a detailed anthology

For achievements in great ichthyology

You’ll find Otis Wren

Mentioned time and again

And with footnotes of heartfelt apology

Our Club President

Can someone make your blood congeal? Ya

Think your skin’s about to peel? Ya

Worry ‘bout your geneteelia?

Betcha you have met Pamelia!

A Dissertation on the Eponymous Aspects of the 1937 Adventurer of the Year

A person with a common name’ll

Seldom have the name of Emil

•Samantha’s Salute

Ev‘rybody’s flag’s unfurling

In salute to Samantha Sterling

Like a dervish madly twirling

Like a hurricane a-whirling

Like a malted milkshake swirling

Setting all your hair a-curling

Till you’re heaving and you’re hurling.

More than knitting, more than purling

More than boying, more than girling

More exciting than a panther—

Sterling! Or first name, Samanther.

•Anthem of Tuneful Delights

Oh say can you see

It’s Fingers Zambee-

-zie, the spirit who lives in the organ!

Oh see can you say

He’s going to play

A musical smorgasborgan!

•Our Butler

Though

So

Many duties

Graves

Saves

Our patooties

•Our Maid

With feathers stuck

Upon a stick

Our maid she does her dusting,

And how she cussed

That dratted dust

When breezes blew a-gusting.

“My job went just

From bad to wust!”

She says, her duster thrusting,

And members must

Conceal their lust

While she’s dust-bunnies busting.

•The Epic Poem of Handsome Hathaway Browne

Of all death-defying and brave aviators,

The truest is Hathaway Browne.

He may be out flying to volcanic craters

Or dancing and painting the town.

He’s up for the chase—find a woman and date her

If she is in rags or a crown.

They will go to a place like the Palace The-ay-ter

Or fly through the air upside-down.

He’ll fight a gorilla or wrestle with gators

Or put on an evening gown

And then eat his filla of burgers and taters

Or champagne and filet mignown.

So if you would know of a real aviator,

A hero of fame and renown,

Don’t look here below at a mere roller-skater,

The cook in the kitchen, or even the waiter,

The bartender, manager, doorman or Maitre

D’, or to the patriot or to the traitor,

The bureaucrat, clerk, or the administrator,

A lowly submissive or a dominator,

A slave owner or the Great Emancipator,

Your brother or sister or mater or pater—

Put all of them down in your calendar later—

For each in comparison is a spectator

To he who doth soar like a wing’d gladiator

With passions as hot as a steam radiator

And loaded with love like a big ol’ pink freighter.

Could anyone do what he does any greater

Than what’s-his-name?

Hathaway Browne!

•A Plea to Guests on the Mezzanine

Oh, people on the mezzanine

We fear that you don’t love us

Please come downstairs and don’t be mean

Don’t act like you’re above us

If you come down we’ll share a cup

If not, what I confess is

We’ll have no choice but just look up

Your noses and your dresses

And one more poem, written by ladies’ man Hathaway Browne:

St. Valentine’s Day Invitation

Oh, won’t you be my Valentine

The 14th of February?

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine

And thou, à la Missionary.

Advertisements