Friday, May 13, 2005

Poesy Corner

I've recently come across the following poem of obscure provenance. Any word concerning its likely origins, probable history, and proper interpretation will be appreciated, although not excessively.

Sir Roderick Buxhomme

He never met a bubble
That he did not hope to pop.
Aye, whenever there was trouble,
He withdrew his riding crop
And slashed from out his carriage,
Slicing orphans in the street.
This was how he practiced marriage;
His brides were quite discreet.

He had no use for strumpets,
But eyed them on the sly.
When he caught them stealing crumpets,
They'd turn to him and cry,
"Oh, sir, we have our reasons!
We are poor and cannot eat!"
But life must have its seasons,
And tripping must be fleet.

He went to war with truncheons,
Suspenders by the yard,
And pickles for his luncheons;
He disdained to carry lard.
The field was full to bursting
With soldiers three foot high;
Their sergeants fell to cursing,
Then expired with a sigh.

This is a man, they whispered,
Who wears his shoulders proud.
The ladies gave a titter,
But it wasn't very loud,
And so he didn't hear them,
But trundled in the rear,
And tossed his fez so near them
No eye was spared a tear.

His tale was long remembered
And sung throughout the land.
For he had ne'er surrendered,
Nor ever raised a hand
To strike a crippled maiden
Or skewer suckling babe.
Kindness was his watchword.
Long may his glory fade.