My Poetry. Gentlemen’s Club

The grand club was full, as it was every night,
New members continuously flowing in.
No single voice could be clearly heard
Above the collective, roaring rant and din.

This was a sanctuary strictly for the elite,
Of a required, distinguished, and set age;
"Strictly Gentlemen Only" was stamped in bold, red type
Right on the front of the pristine membership page.

The leather seats were old, heavy, and decidedly stuffy,
Kicking up small dust clouds whenever one dared to sit.
Ornaments crowded the main room's every surface,
Placed carefully beside the resident Tom Cat.
The formidable bar was built in the nineteen twenties,
With prices tragically adjusted to the present day,
But the few men who exclusively attended here
Had the inherited money to easily pay.

The club was originally built in 1890,
And the decor had never been allowed to change;
Decades of continuous smoking had played its part,
Leaving the very air twisted, yellowed, and deranged.
Some venerable members, as old as ninety years,
Attended the sacred club ritual each passing week,
And at the long, polished dinner table,
They finally had their solitary chance to speak.

Old, branded jokes were always tossed carelessly about,
Light chuckles and coughs were heard now and then;
It was their sole, crucial way of keeping in touch,
A sacred tradition for the old, trustworthy gentlemen.
The young barmaids were dressed scantily and tight,
And the old men watched in wide-eyed, predictable awe;
A predictable, harmless treat for them, it was clear,
Excited by the unexpected sights they saw.

The club closed strictly at ten thirty in the evening,
And several reluctant members had to be chased away;
It was another successful night at the old gentlemen's club,
Leaving behind a handful of excited hearts that briefly raced.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025