Saturday, 10 December 2016


A Spenserian Tribute to the
Making of the Male Feminist

In modern times, when all is parody,
And knights and ladies few and far between,
One sighs to see the fall of chivalry
And courtship turned to purposes obscene;
But still the noble sentiment is seen
(Although, reciprocated, maybe not)
In youthful fellows, virginal and green,
Just like the hero of our present plot:
Though Duncan he was born, we’ll call him Duncelot.

Now Duncelot’s knight-errantry began,
When first he spied a lady sweet and fair
(Albeit walking with another man)
In high school, where full chests are rather rare:
Our man’s ardour, this vision did ensnare,
And sent it straining up from down below,
Until she fixed him with a puzzled stare –
And Duncelot, so that she’d never know,
Pretended to have tripped, and on bended knee did go.

Thenceforth he made acquaintance with the lass,
Whose name, Tupa, he dreamed on without end;
And, scheming all her suitors to surpass,
Became in time her closely-trusted friend:
To help her out, no pains he failed to spend,
Nor even money, should the need arise,
His true love hid – her fearing to offend...
Meanwhile, the lads whom none did thus advise
Got passage free of charge ’twixt Tupa’s silky thighs.

One of these boys, a scoundrel to the bone,
Left Tupa to pursue some better sport;
Our hero found his lady all alone,
As wrath and vengeful as she was distraught;
He drew the sword without a second thought,
And burned the lout’s new car that very night –
A noble act! Alas, our man was caught,
And banished from the school-campus outright;
In times of moral death, ’tis hard to be a knight.

Fair Tupa went to university,
To dance long nights, and sleep ’till days were late;
To join her, our man wished fervently,
But lacked the test scores to matriculate;
A drop-out can’t walk through a college gate,
But may find his way in through a back door:
So Duncelot, for half the going rate,
Took up the task of scouring the floor –
And at his lady’s feet, soon found himself once more.

One day poor Tupa, weeping for a lad,
Called Duncelot into her sleeping-place:
Where they both drank, and cursed the arrant cad,
And shared the odd half-intimate embrace –
And then lay down together, face-to-face,
When he, at last, his feelings did convey,
But found her swooned upon the pillow-case;
Good Duncelot pulled over the duvet,
And, in his drunken state, soon slept there where he lay.

When Duncelot awakened from his dream,
Alone, ringed round by stares of ice and ire,
He knew not, having swigged of Lethe’s stream,
What vile events had happened to transpire;
But his account, these men did not require,
For they’d been told a tale of ravishment,
By her whom he was loath to name a liar:
So Duncelot, into the dungeon went,
And in its dismal gloom, long years of sorrow spent.

At length, our hero walked out of the clink,
With no clue as to Tupa’s domicil;
And, lacking ladies’ chests on which to think,
Applied himself to business with a will:
His own hard work, his coffers served to fill,
And made him a success at thirty-five;
But mused he on his missing Lady still:
At wilful fraud, he judged she’d ne’er connive –
And thus all tests of fact, his ardour did survive.

And then dear Tupa turned up at the door
Of Duncelot’s expensive city pad –
Who, though she looked more haggard than before,
Rejoiced to see this long-lost maenad;
He didn’t ask what romances she’d had
(What gentleman would ask a thing like that?)
Nor how in rags she came to be so clad;
And Duncelot, at whom the kitten spat,
Forgot his thwarted years, and took to bed the cat.

Next day, our knight went down on bended knee,
And found his lady glad to tie the knot;
Then came report of Tupa’s pregnancy,
Which pleased no man so much as Duncelot;
Alas, a happy ending, this was not:
The birth was almost two months ‘premature’;
And when our hero peered into the cot,
He found the babe as brown as nut-liqueur –
Thenceforth, Sir Cuckalot his nick-name did endure.

Then Tupa got the wanderlust again:
So, using all the might of legal wrong,
And with the help of lawyers and armed men,
Annulled their short-lived ‘union lifelong’ –
And wished, what’s more, to take some things along:
Our hero – should we call him Dunce or Cuck? –
Like Gunther trussed before Brunhild the strong,
Sat helpless as a portly sitting duck,
As money, pad and car from his asset-lists were struck.

Poor Duncelot walked out into the night,
And wondered how his life had come to this;
He’d strived to live straightforward and upright,
But straight-stood things can only render bliss
To low-hunched brutes, as props on which to piss...

But this fruit of his thoughts soon went to rot;
The word for Tupa vanished with a hiss;
To start anew, took strength he had not got:
So, void of will to change, he willed his horrid lot.

He took to study with great earnestness,
And, as he slogged through Leftist syllabi,
New shield and mail encloaked his cowardice;
New ‘chivalry’ his faults did justify –
A true rebirth! (From maggot into fly)
He learned white males were under interdict,
And how the end for manliness was nigh,
And, having been himself maligned and tricked,
Took up the lance – his grief on others to inflict.

So, what became of Duncelot, you say?
His life is long, and Legion is his name:
With screaming hags he marches in array,
And in ‘Men’s Studies’ holds no little fame;
As marriage atrophies, he puts the blame
On husbands chasing younger bits of frock;
But, now as then, his secret is the same:
What strains beneath his holy-crossèd smock
Is not a noble heart, but a sad and sorry cock.


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