No, I’m not the Grubmaster

As I feverishly prepared to depart on another camping trip, the thought sprang into my mind. “You know, I bet people (on my blog) would like to read this poetry I’m preparing for troop entertainment.” I am posting my poem before reality kicks in, as it did last year, but too late for the troop to prepare an unfriendly reception.

Dirge for the Grubmaster

The cook so strangely skillful
Took a queer delight in life
His grub haunted the patrol
Grisly nightfall after night

What skills he showed in making
All the victims of his knife
Into the charcoal flaming
With the fire’s ruddy light

This dear departed fellow
Lived a long eventful life
Until he made some Jello
On a dark and lonely night

It grabbed him in a choke hold
He put up a valiant fight
The hour had not gotten old
But it crawled out of our sight

What a help the cook had been
Before he finally died
The actions of the gelatin
Kept the patrol alive.

I go now to make muffins and stuff my pack with stuff. Fare well!


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