The League of Epic Poets

Yesterday I walked down the stairs and found myself going within the clubhouse of a league of folk, who strive daily for excellence. Our membership is rather rarefied and reserved only for those who find their voice in epic poems, instead of tired, prosaic prose. Of course, its not really a clubhouse, since there are only five of us, it’s actually Dan’s mom’s basement where we hide from the world above. And Dan’s not so much an epic man, he’s never broken two hundred lines, but he always keeps the beer fridge full, and knows how to have a good time. Then there’s Sandy, our only girl, she’s excessively proud of that, and though it’s stereotype to say it, she’s disturbingly fond of her cats. I suppose that there are worse things, and she writes with practiced flow, but I can’t take another feline ode that runs for ten freakin’ cantos! There’s also Jack, our newest pal, known far and wide on the internet, mostly as a troll, not as a writer for he has posted no verse yet. But I’ve seen his work, it’s really good and would be even better to read if his characters didn’t constantly bang… a girlfriend is what he needs. Then there’s Rodney, our best success, who self-published his epic last fall, a rousing tale of Gods and Titans, it’s sold twelve copies, all-in-all. Still he’s confident of his future, and spends most days locked in his room, pumping our quatrains for his next work, a poetic history of visiting the moon. And then there’s me, you narrator, a glutton for more punishment, I keep rhyming even thought I know there’s no dollars coming, or cents. But in this room we’re strutting kings, and the world but illiterate clods, we strive nobly to keep tradition alive… …thank God that I have a day job.