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[Old as a roomful of drunks, diverting as a roomful of day school headmasters.] As I'm not in the habit of tacking my poems up here or on your wall (unless I love you), I can only offer a bit of doggerel written to celebrate the very male Anthologist [*] as it was during my tenure there. One or two more serious efforts can be found in that magazine's archives [*]. Note that despite some indications I do not currently enjoy the privilege of being the editor. Due to my graduation (the better part of three years ago), mostly. I recommend speaking the poem into a mirror. Sound it however you like. Yes, you do have to pronounce one word incorrectly for the thing to fall together. Quite a piece of its kind, I think. The Gentlemen's Literary Club There once was a club that went rub-a-dub in the tub. This club was for men, gay men—gayer than Parisiens who bubble and scrubble each other in the tub, blubb'ring, 'Rub-a-dub-dub, rub-a-dub-dub! If we could only pub-pub-pub- lish like the bubbly, scrubbly men from Chubb!'

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