Shall not snuggery sojourns and speakeasy spree/rambles
start with iambic pentameter preambles?
Of
all the bogus bars, gin mills, canteens,
sakayas,
gay bars, brew pubs, cuca shops,
red
lanterns, supper rooms, saloons, shebeens,
meyhanes,
BYOs, pieds-a-hops
in
all the urbs and ‘burbs about this ball,
why’d
whetted whistles sing of these
oases...?
Why these (trump’d-up tied bars and
taverns all)...?
Why
framed milieus...?
Why
famed “who’s who”s,
feign’d
views, stain’d loos,
fake
wait-staff crews...?
Indeed,
why choose
bent
booze and brews
from
fabricated places...?
The Angler's Rest in Wodehouse's Mulliner Nights
A
Wodehouse roadhouse! There I’d first while hours
(“Miss
Postlethwaite: a half, please, of your best!”),
my
Mild amid their Stouts and Lemon Sours.
In
short, I’d hang (in shorts) at Angler’s Rest,
to
savor sev’ral spells – ideally, dozens –
with
Mulliner (that’s Mister M to
you)...
regaled
with tales of M’s amazing cousins:
the
silly stuff
(such
guff, much, fluff;
such
puff: much, bluff,
yet
ne’er enough)
he
claims they say and do.
The Alpha Inn in Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle"
The
Alpha Inn enjoys a parlour bar.
It’s
Windigate’s. I’d cue there, third to order.
Those
two (Hello! You well know who they are)
distinguish
Alpha’s geese from Alpha’s porter.
The
first is Doyle’s PI; through clues he combs
to
crimes from times before electric chairs.
He’s
Doctor Watson’s Johnson, Sherlock Holmes!
One dick, one doc
and
– drei – me nigh.
“But
why...?” you’re asking.
“Why
me...? Why...?”
It’s
Holmes and Watson, bre’rs!
Let
share their drafts who dares.
Now’s
closing time…? Who cares!
The Admiral Benbow Inn in Stevenson's Treasure Island
A
“pleasant-sittyated” grogshop, pegg’d
The
Adm’ral Benbow Inn in RLS’s
Treasure Island,
wherein single-leg’d
Jack
Tars ‘n’ salts (some, cooks) brook mix’d successes.
There’s
where I’d deign drop anchor, near Kitt’s Hole,
to,
parch’d, partake of Hawkins’s strong rum...
and,
perch’d before the fire, well-stok’d with coal,
taste
tunes tenfold,
from
sea dogs old,
of
maps enfolding
secrets
sold
for
buried gold,
of
“…heat and cold…
and
all the old
romance
retold…”
(including
some concerning mould-
infected
apples in the hold)
until
my eardrum’s numb
(with
sailor’s tales a-hum).
Rick's Cafe Americaine in Michael Curtiz's Casablanca*
I’d
pen a phrase for fans of classic flicks
like
“…all the bars in all the towns…(etcetera),”
or
maybe “Everybody comes to Rick’s,”
then
scribble out, in verse, an alphabet or a
haiku,
one penn’d best at Signor Ferreri’s,
abetting
his Blue Parrot crew’s new tricks
to
loot from Blaine Américain sans
“sorry”s.
(You
see how everyone does come to
Rick’s...?)
I’d
steal a Steinway, swipe a Sam to “Play it!”
(Did
Ilsa say “…again…”? No, she did not,
Though
Sascha…) But, alas! I could not stay. It
works
out quite slick
for
Lund and Vic,
but
Lou and Rick
do
exit schtick
and,
what with visas none too thick,
those
Nazi plots grow hot.
(Loike,
a poisson could git shot.)
* Curtiz directed the film. The screenplay was based
on a play written by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison.
The Chalice in Jaroslav Hasek's The Good Soldier Svejk
I’d
drink with Svejk a black from Palivek,
who,
with his wife, landlords it o’er The Chalice.
I’d
drink. I’d wink. I’d warn (in cashier’s Czech)
of
undercover snitch Bretschneider’s malice,
and
hope, with this, my twist to Hasek’s tale,
no
altered u’d occur, ordaining poor,
course
Palivek to not sit out, in jail,
his
war, nor Svejk
the
eldertyke
to
bike (not hike)
around
the reich
Battuta-like
on path and pike,
misfortunes
to explore.
