Adventurers Club Poetry by Fletcher Hodges20 June 2009
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.
Which is richer? Bunch of butchers,
Lots of lechers, or a kvetcher?
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
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!
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
•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.