The Complete Pug Poems Back to Pug's Place
The Complete Pug Poems
Written for and posted on
the E.F. Benson Internet Discussion Group,
in response to readings and discussion there
"Ragtime dead? Hell, it ain't even sick!" - Bob Darch
"The Belle of Louisville" by Frank French (1990)
How Pleasant to Be On the List!
(with apologies to Edward Lear)
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How pleasant to be on the List! Which has written such volumes of stuff! Some think we need psychiatrists, But a few find us pleasant enough. We sit in our beautiful parlors, With hundreds of books on the wall. When asked if we've had enough Benson We cry, "Never! We've not read it all!" Some live 'cross the pond (or the ocean), Others live in the East or the West. While rivalries exist we've a notion That Maine lobster is simply the best. There's no doubt that Lucia's a magician, As we read in our armchairs at night. We buy marble fruit and first editions, But Benson's our primary delight. The flames of our passion we kindle, There's scarcely a Benson we've missed. 'Ere the days of our pilgrimage dwindle, How pleasant to be on the List!
The Lobster Quadrille
(with apologies to Lewis Carroll)
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Limericks a la Wentworth
(written during the discussion of Benson's PAYING GUESTS)
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There was a young person named Florence, Who showered her friend with adorance. 'Gainst the colonel they plotted (He was likewise besotted) Fueling his greed and igNORance. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There was a hale colonel called Chase, Who indulged in a bicycle race. Come the evening - begad! He found he'd been had His pedometer just hadn't kept pace. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A superior person named Bliss Said that pain simply doesn't exist. It is all in one's MIND And her friends would all find Complete health by remembering this. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Mr. Kemp, that self-centered old toad, Examined each polyp and node. Of his hip he'd complain When he'd walk or it'd rain, Petrified of the grippe when it snowed. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ There was a bad poet called Pug, Who became so insufferably smug All her friends on the List Wish the Muse had not kissed Her and lulled her good sense with its drug.
Servants
(Ah, le domestiche!)
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Oh the laundry's in piles and dishes at hand, But I'm drawn from this chaos to a far better land Where the pull of a bellrope will straightaway summon A faithful retainer to relieve my doldrummin. Thus summoned the redoubtable Jeeves shimmers in, To enquire of my welfare or cater my whim. And parlormaid Grosvenor would banish all those Who importunately threaten my daylong repose. Then Cadman unerringly shuttles me hence 'Ere the next pressing social engagements commence. Leaving Foljambe at home all my treasures to polish. Whilst Cook conjures up some fine lobsterish dish. On a hot August day when I'm nearly done in Why who should bring water but brave Gunga Din? But not Mrs. Danvers nor inept Renfield Those servants too ghoulish and uneven keeled. Nor would I settle for Prissy's cry, "Massah! I just don't know what I should do! A dissasah!" For the soul is repelled by the thought of a slave, And it's selfless devotion to ME that I crave. And yet as I toil I cling to this vision, I beg of you not to greet with derision - How pleasant life would most certainly be Had I but servants to cater to me.
The Mouse Pad
(A sad tale of envy, wherein Pug - er, Pomeranian reacts drastically to the news that Church Tower has a trompe l'oeil painting in her bathroom of the view from Miss Mapp's sitting room)
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One bold Pomeranian she Was strangled last night with a cord No one could say who it might be Committing a crime so forward. Yes, ever belligerent she Was found with her terminal on And some say it's better and we Can celebrate now that she's gone. But in comes Inspector McVee With his reputation at stake He has many questions and he No doubt some deductions will make. "Observe this computer screen, see - A message hastily sent To a group so witty and free Yet of a scandalous bent." "Perhaps this will serve as the key And all our perplexity will Become transparent once we Reveal the motive to kill." And now this inspector, oh he Peruses this relevant screed He breaks only briefly for tea His keeness amazing indeed. "This note I confess puzzles me," Says our stalwart McVee with gloom, "For the subject I see is in re - Gard to Miss Mapp's Sitting Room." Reading on past bedtime McVee At last discovers the truth No villain but mere jealousy Lays behind this action uncouth. Lo, strangled undoubtedly she By her own volition - not foes So better to wish "R - I - P" And triumphantly say, "Case Closed!" (Posted on the Benson List Mar. 12, 1998)
Miss Leg's Fork Luncheon
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Miss Leg's fork luncheon, a brilliant coup Took place last Monday, ‘twas quite a do With nobs from London, and all those who Received no summons had cause to rue. The suave Bosanquet first ushered in A Maharaja who looked quite thin And Arthur Armstrong came after him Then Mrs. Conklin's dogs -- what a din! Next came the Vicar, who said that he Was saved by yoga, his mind set free It helped him concentrate on his tee He found its impact exemplary. Sly Mrs. Mantrip could not disguise The stark anxiety in her eyes When Lady Eva asked of her prize - The Life of Papa, please, summarize. A luscious luncheon by M. Rouen Emboldened diners ‘till all was gone (That greedy Armstrong devoured bon-bons - It's almost certain he'll weigh a ton!) A hearty swimmer named Mr. Salt Was pleased to show us his nimble vault Across the table with scarce a fault But scattered dishes, a chance result. An aged Duchess was drinking tea Cup set beside her precariously As Jimmie Mason beat one-two-three Time to the gramophone, musically. Then Lady Eva would demonstrate How haloes' colors reveal one's fate (Or something like that, at any rate) Until her husband came, none too late. He'd had his organs internal screened For signs of cancer, but none was gleaned Now sure of soundness, he smiled serene (Though some might think him a philistine). Leg's agent Nunky, with courtly bow Explained to Duchess both why and how The great da Vinci's books even now Ran through ten printings or more somehow. Now amber-haloed Miss Leg presides Her huge Alsatian close by her side No critics scorn her, no snobs deride This Queen of Literature, Durham's Pride! (Posted on the List Mar. 12, 1998)
Ode to Asparagus
(A poem written for the Pepino verse competition, and greatly admired by Lorena Bobbit)
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Harbinger of spring, stirring beneath the soil Prehistoric plantform, toward the light you toil Until the emergent shoots luxuriate in the rays Growing ever upwards with the passage of days. The perpetual struggle inherent in each clump Each spear a sentinel, each stalk a triumph Your tumescent buds, yet higher strive The burgeoning gemmules eager to be alive. YET Better to lie undiscovered in a ditch Where waters flow and the soil is rich Where thy only enemy is the weevil Brutish black and red insect of evil For - oh! The flash of the gardener's knife Truncates, severs and disjoints thy life. How cruel is thy ultimate fate Lying limp and lifeless on a plate.
Fashionation
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While it makes one tired to think of the clothes Our ancestors wore, yet still I suppose There's much to be said for the fashions of yore For in truth modern clothes are a bit of a bore. So follow me now to the days long ago When clothes made the man, and swaggering beaux Wore jewelled shoe buckles and vests sprigged with gold And were proud of the turn of their legs, I am told. While an exposed lady's ankle was ever so daring, Which is odd considering the breasts she was baring. What hoops and braces supported her dress, With stays and corsets and garters no less. Such billows of tulle, such bevies of bows With row upon row upon row of rouleaux. Tiers of smooth satin, cream parchment lace And beading and flounces all over the place. Salmon pink ribbons, a sweet cornette cap For winter, a fur muff and robe for the lap. Long pheasant feathers, a huge peacock fan Plumes from an ostrich - no bird was banned. The mantle, the cape, the cloak, the shawl, A ruff made of ermine, sables come fall. Bangles and brooches festooning each gown Embroidered reticules, parasols worth pounds. Not to mention the colors - king-fisher blue And crimson lake red, just to mention a few. Cashmere and satin, silk, bombazine - Such finery today is simply not seen. Oh what would they think of our spandex and cotton? Is fashion sense gone? Or merely forgotten! (Posted on the Benson List June 6, 1998, during discussion of As We Were)
An Incident at Wellington
(An Heroic Rendering of the Proto-Archbishop's Plunge into the Ice.)
( Dedicated to Bibelot with posthumous apologies to Alfred, Lord Tennyson)
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On the ice, on the ice On the ice onward Onto the lake of Death Stepped the Headmaster. "Stay on the shoreline! Wait for my call!" he said Onto the lake of Death Stepped the Headmaster. "Stay on the shoreline!" Was there a boy dismay'd? Not a sole fellow knew Our Edward had blundered. Theirs not to make reply Theirs not to reason why Theirs but to wait and sigh While onto the per'lous lake Strode the Headmaster. A crack to the right of him A crack to the left of him A crack in front of him Volley'd and thunder'd. Plunged in the gelid froth Right thro' the ice he broke Arms flailing wildly. He who had trod so well Into the lake he fell Into the mouth of hell That brave Headmaster. Struck dumb the students were Watching that sinking form Till one removed his scarf Flinging it outward. Grasping this flimsy line Heave-ho, he rose again Soaked to the very skin A resilient Headmaster. When can his glory fade? O the brave test he made! All the world wonder'd. Honor the risk he took Write of it in a book Noble Headmaster!
Limericks Written for the Benson Birthday Party
July 31, 1998
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When lurkers drop by on our List
They soon realize what they've missed
A few are so bold
As to enter the fold
While others this process resist.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ An opulent lady named Wyse
Assumed an imperial guise
She wore a great sable
When 'ere she was able
Which invariably doubled her size.
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Apollonia, that goddess so rare
Materialized on a dare
She came up from a drain
'Neath the garden's remains
Refreshing herself en plein air.
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Mrs. Antrobus always said 'eh?'
'Confound it, what did you say?'
Raising up her ear trumpet
She'd nibble a crumpet
And others all News would relay.
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A spirit guide name of Abfou
Appeared with a halo of blue
This strange apparition
Had a singular mission
To Janet he sent billet doux.
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A timorous person of Tilling
Won playing bridge a whole shilling
She gave a great squeak
For it seemed that the meek
For once had received the top billing.
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On the platform our Tiptree proclaims
'With my teeth I've no notion to maim
It's simply my way
Of engaging in play
You'll find it a jolly good game.'
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Her gramophone broken Miss Leg
Was tempted her neighbors to beg
'More noise if you please
For that will appease
Our daVinci who lays the gold eggs.'
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A Blumenfelt aged yet intact
Was found when one played to react
With a curious noise
Whose timbre annoys
So was straightaway given the sack.
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Behold the Bird aloft so blue
Adorning Mrs. Wyse's hat
A rather awkward placement, that
For what's a spirit bird to do
But take a dip and change his hue.
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From India's shores our Poona came
Ensnaring every man she met
She did it then; she does it yet
The Major's fancy she inflamed
In drink he dwells still on her name
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Who made off with Charlotte's mitten?
Displayed with pomp and stately care
I'm sure no Riseholmite would dare
Was someone with this relic smitten?
Good gracious - look! - it's Gatta's kitten!
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When Mr. Hopkins came to call
On Quaint Irene he had no mood
To stand about all chill and nude
But still he stood till evening's fall
So she could paint his wherewithal.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Pug stood on the burning deck
And didn't give a fig or hoot
That soon his tail had turned to soot
He thought of Arthur's lakeward trek
A morte immortal, worth shipwreck
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How doth the fashionable Trout
Who daily splashed upon the page
Informs us of the latest rage
Of her appeal there's little doubt
That well-financed one, Mrs. Trout.
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Quando la Contessa cammina sul mar
Tutta la gente from near and far
Watch as she goes
From her head to her toes
A Faradiglione che passeggiar!Chi sa dov'e la Contessa va?
She is, they say, la donna prima!
Her figure majestic ti incantera'
Oh who would have guessed it, che piacer sara'!
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When Siriami's shares glittered like gold
Greedy Mapp acquired them seven fold
When the shares tumbled down
She was left with a frown
Soon the sign on her house proclaimed "Sold"!
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When Olga gave voice to a song
The hours of practice so long
Paid off handsomely
Yawning Yorks it might be
But in no time she'd attracted a throng!
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Our lovely Jane Weston once pined
For hale Colonel Boucher so kind
But soon they were wed
And then everyone said
That in Riseholme there were few so refined.
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"Lord Tony, you heartless roue'!"
I distinctly heard our Marcia say
"You've led me on so
With this tea but now go
And bring me more Bolly, s'il vous plait!"
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When Patience looked 'pon her deck.
She shuddered to fine there a fleck
Of strawberry jam
Or perhaps curried ham
Ah! Gooseberry Fool, she suspects!
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Brown Isabel laid on a dune
Quite soon she resembled a prune
And all scrutinized her
A few criticized her
'Specially Mapp, that toothsome poltroon!
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A Sticky Child stood at the gate
Saying, "Please, sir, may I have a plate?"
No one would deny her
They'd soon pacify her
With candies and sweets by the crate.
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Lord Tony, that man about town
Sent some wine to a hostess renowned
But when he came by
The lady was high
And not one single drop could be found!
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Major Benjy set out to declaim
Danny Deever, but found when he came
To the next-to-last verse
He'd developed a thirst
So a quick chota peg was ordained
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Said Church Tower, 'Je suis desole'
How sad that no one came today
To boldly look down
O'er all Tilling town
On the shingle there's quite a melee!'
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A ghastly Pug shouted till hoarse
Bad poems at the top of her vorce
Till it rained cyber fruit
On her loathsome patoot
Then she crept away, seized with remorse.
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The Inner Mapp
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There is a resource deep within Which we all can bring to bear When the overwhelming urge to win Overshadows what is fair. For some the lock is rusty, Saints throw away the key, But most of us just can’t resist And our inner Mapp’s set free. Point out, as though it pains you, Each mistake that others make. Though this exercise sustains you, It leaves ill will in your wake. Do you hear a ghostly chortle When you pounce upon some lapse? That unearthly sense of glee’s not yours It’s actually Mapp’s. Never fail to cast aspersions Bend the truth to suit your view Don’t show the least aversion To the fact the tale’s not true. But should a cautionary twinge Beset you, siring doubt, Let loose the inner Mapp and then All scruples she will rout. Calculate with superhuman speed Whilst uttering some platitude For you’re most likely to succeed If your prey mistakes your attitude. Say “Dear one” and think “Damn you,” Smile your widest as you scheme For the inner Mapp will guide you Let vengeance be your theme. When righteous indignation Leaves you pining for a fight, Take up your window station As the enemy comes in sight. A single volley from the casement (Aim it well below the belt) Will resonate down in the basement Where your inner Mapp’s long dwelt. Oh, there are many things, I’m sure, My inner Mapp dictates; And should I listen to her Such a frisson it creates. A pleasurable sensation Of thinking I am right - Though in truth it’s merely Mapp, Who is better known as Spite. - January 30, 1999 -
Blue Birdie, My Sweet ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Note: Don't miss the illustrated version of this poem at Mrs. Trout's site.
There was once a blue bird from his cage seldom lured, the most gracious and spacious in Tilling. He was pampered and fed and the life that he led was one he considered fulfilling. From morning to night his song joyous and bright filled the air with its tweets of good humour, And his mistress would find his song eased her poor mind when she wearied of gossip and rumour. Now this matron was fond of ties to the haut monde; she relished each royal connection. Furthermore she'd allude in a way almost crude to awards she'd leave out for inspection. But she dropped all conceit when Blue Birdie's voice sweet appealed boldly to her finer traits. For it seemed her soul heard in the song of the bird the pure notes of an untroubled state. ‘Pon occasion she freed the blue bird and this deed would one day prove to be his undoing. For one time as he hopped on a chair down she plopped, a faint chirp his sole sign of adieuing. When at length she arose a flat bird there reposed, her lament was sincere and unfeigned - ‘Oh, Birdie, my sweet! What a sad end to meet!" scooping up the crushed bits that remained. But so great was her grief she could find no relief, so she clung to her dearly departed. For to bury her pet sans remorse or regret was an act she considered cold hearted. A new hat she had bought, so instead came the thought of affixing the newly deceased And so the corpse made a quite handsome cockade first preserved and then carefully pieced. Then again she would wear when her dress front seemed bare the blue bird pinned upon her vast breast. One night she leaned forward, the bird fell down toward a bowl of fruit fool near her chest. Down did he plummet from the décolletage summit in a ruinous rhodamine splash. From this sudden baptism a strange chromatism; happily, blue and pink do not clash. Now his mistress would swear that faint chirps filled the air from the Afterlife surely he spoke. When she took up a pen, his voice came again in fluent and curious strokes. Soon a seance was held and all present compelled to summon him back from Beyond. Holding hands, concentrating, entranced, all awaiting to see if the bird would respond. Then soft stirred the breeze and a sense of unease the intangible seemed not far away. There was something awry, and a sound like a sigh but whence it came no one could say. When they switched on the light they confronted a sight which caused at first glance quite a shock For the bier where the bird had once lain undisturbed now contained but a vacuous box. Though all were astonished, a Wyse guest admonished, "Thus the soul sheds its earthly prison. His bodily essence diffused in our presence to the astral plane surely he's risen. And if you should hear a small chirp near your ear and then feel a soft wing brush your cheek, You must banish all fear, for Blue Birdie draws near and he merely endeavors to speak." May, 1999
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