Monday's Poetry: "Palace in the Popple"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

It's that time of year again, at least in Missouri, when the unwashed masses stuff themselves into comfortable camo jumpsuits, swing by the local liquor store and load up on beer, and then head out into the woods to drink and shoot and maybe even kill a few deer.  Except now in these enlightened times they no longer "shoot" or even "kill" deer.  Our modern day frontiersmen spend months luring deer to a particular spot in the woods with feed and salt blocks.  They erect a tree-stands or blinds nearby, or purchase a portable shelter at the local feed store and have it brought in, and then, come hunting season they climb up into their pre-made shelters, slosh down a few beers, and wait to "harvest" their deer.

That's right, deer are now harvested.  That's the term that is used throughout the local press and among the merchants who supply the hunters with everything from camouflage clothing to weapons and ammo, to even the cold cases of beer that they lug religiously to their hunting camps, cabins, and playhouses.

(One local seller of these hunting treehouses on stilts argues that "The deer are comfortable in the woods, so why shouldn't you be comfortable, too!")  All of that and you are away from the old ball-and-chain for a few days - unless she came along to enjoy the fun of sitting in a treehouse for hours-on-end also!

Gone are the days when harvesting brought thoughts of young boys and girls knocking apples out of trees with broom handles so that Gramma could have plenty of apple butter ready in time for the holidays.  Now it's Joe Bob and and Roscoe stumbling around drunk in their tree stands as they try to "harvest" a passing buck without "harvesting" each other in the crossfire.

The young deer who have been frequenting my pond have all disappeared during this blasphemy against nature, but I am confident that most will return in a few weeks.  Some of the local hunters will bring home a deer, but most will just return hungover.

The following was written by an older gentleman named George Augustus "Gus" Bixby in rural Wisconsin in 1905.   Old Gus reportedly enjoyed both the reading and writing of poetry.  (Notice his reference to Dan McGrew - "The Shooting of Dan McGrew" -  by Robert W. Service.)  Bixby's voice as a poet strongly resembles that of Mr. Service.   Please enjoy "Palace in the Popple."

Palace in the Popple

by Gus Bixby

  It's a smokey raunchy boar's nest,
    with an unswept drafty floor,
  And pillow ticking curtains,
    with knife scars on the floor.

  The smell of a pine knot fire,
    from a stovepipe that's come loose,
  Mingles sweetly with the bootgrease,
    and the copenhagen snoose.

  There are workworn .30-.30's
    with battered steel stocks,
  And drying lines of longjohns,
    and of steaming pungent socks.

  There's a table for the bloody four,
    and their game of two card draw,
  And there's deep and dreamless sleeping,
    on bunkticks filled with straw.

  Ed and Lawrence, by the stove,
    their gun talk loud and hot,
  And Rob, has drawn a pain of kings,
    and raking in the pot.

  Harvey's drafted again as cook,
    he's peeling spuds for stew,
  While Gus, wanders in baggy pants,
    receiting Dan McGrew.

  Nowhere on earth is fire so warm,
    nor coffee so infernal,
  Or whiskers stiff or jokes so rich
    nor hope blooms so eternal.

  A man can live for a solid week,
    in the same old underbritches,
  He can walk like a man, spit where he wants,
    and scratch himself where he itches

  I tell you boys there's no place else,
    where I'd rather be come Fall,
  Where I eat like a bear and sing like a wolf,
    And feel like I'm Bull Pine tall.

  In that raunchy cabin out in the bush,
    in the land of the Raven n Loon,
  With a tracking snow lying new to the ground,
    at the end of the rutting moon.