Mr. Twombley's Ultimate Triumph
Once there was a man named Mr. Twombley, and he was monarch of all he surveyed;
He had a lovely wife and two lovely children and a lovely portfolio of blue-chip stocks
and even a lovely cook and a lovely maid.
He also had a swimming pool and a barbecue grill and a library containing forty-seven titles;
Nevertheless there was a vulture gnawing at his vitals.
This vulture pursued him as fiercely as the Eumenides,
Or photographers following the Kennedys.
Mr. Twombley felt that he had failed to live up to today’s code of
lower, middle, and upper-class living, which is as rigid as those of Moses and Hammurabi;
In a word, Mr. Twombley had no hobby.
Yes, the aptitude and even the desire for hobbies had been omitted from his being;
Not for him the fascination of golf or tennis, of sailing or climbing,
of bridge or canasta, or archery or skiing.
No numismatist he, no hi-fi addict, no philatelite,
Even the assertion that worm-fishing is a sportier sport than fly-fishing
lit in his eyes no battle light.
Poor hobbyless Mr. Twombley, what words can his loneliness describe?
He was a second-class citizen, ostentatiously excluded from the
boastful reminiscent bar and locker-room powwows of the tribe;
Because of all snobs, the snobbiest
Is the hobbyist.
But wait! Along came grandfatherhood, and Presto!
Mr. Twombley was transformed into a hobbyist of overpowering gusto, not to say zesto.
Yea, more than a hobbyist;
He became a veritable lobbyist.
His wallet bulged with overexposed or underexposed snapshots of
human tadpoles middle-sized and small,
And when it came to recounting the details of a hand of old maid or slapjack
he developed total recall.
He was a treasure-house of infantile cute sayings and an authority on the riddle,
And he would have also been an authority on croquet if any contest had
survived those accusations of cheating that break out in the middle.
Yes indeed, Mr. Twombley found a hobby in his grandchildren, but he
was not as completely obsessed by it as you might think;
Every time a new grandchild needed a diaper changed he disappeared like a chipmunk into a chink.
He had a lovely wife and two lovely children and a lovely portfolio of blue-chip stocks
and even a lovely cook and a lovely maid.
He also had a swimming pool and a barbecue grill and a library containing forty-seven titles;
Nevertheless there was a vulture gnawing at his vitals.
This vulture pursued him as fiercely as the Eumenides,
Or photographers following the Kennedys.
Mr. Twombley felt that he had failed to live up to today’s code of
lower, middle, and upper-class living, which is as rigid as those of Moses and Hammurabi;
In a word, Mr. Twombley had no hobby.
Yes, the aptitude and even the desire for hobbies had been omitted from his being;
Not for him the fascination of golf or tennis, of sailing or climbing,
of bridge or canasta, or archery or skiing.
No numismatist he, no hi-fi addict, no philatelite,
Even the assertion that worm-fishing is a sportier sport than fly-fishing
lit in his eyes no battle light.
Poor hobbyless Mr. Twombley, what words can his loneliness describe?
He was a second-class citizen, ostentatiously excluded from the
boastful reminiscent bar and locker-room powwows of the tribe;
Because of all snobs, the snobbiest
Is the hobbyist.
But wait! Along came grandfatherhood, and Presto!
Mr. Twombley was transformed into a hobbyist of overpowering gusto, not to say zesto.
Yea, more than a hobbyist;
He became a veritable lobbyist.
His wallet bulged with overexposed or underexposed snapshots of
human tadpoles middle-sized and small,
And when it came to recounting the details of a hand of old maid or slapjack
he developed total recall.
He was a treasure-house of infantile cute sayings and an authority on the riddle,
And he would have also been an authority on croquet if any contest had
survived those accusations of cheating that break out in the middle.
Yes indeed, Mr. Twombley found a hobby in his grandchildren, but he
was not as completely obsessed by it as you might think;
Every time a new grandchild needed a diaper changed he disappeared like a chipmunk into a chink.