Guest Article: "Squares Upon Theirs, A pessimistic tale of the craft" by Herpes Quadmatestes

Squares Upon Theirs

A pessimistic tale of the craft.

by Herpes Quadmatestes

A man was curious about a building of brick,

He'd think and he'd wonder until he got sick,

So many times that he actually went

Into the building to talk and to vent.

He was greeted by a few smiles on geezers

Who had to take breaks in between their great wheezers.

The old men all sat in a huddle to find

The same type of men to fit the right kind

Of a mold that was cast

Far in the past,

With morals and trust who would do it all right,

Who wouldn't complain or put up a fight,

When the secrets were told and the beans were all spilled,

And the dues were collected and coffers were filled.

With greenbacks, dollars, shillings and a mark,

You'll have a fraternity with men who are still in the dark.

They lure you in, and give you a committee

It's only too late when you smell something $h!##y.

Where was the good stuff? The truth and the lore?

All there ever is are the minutes and what's more,

Is the complete lack of education I say,

And the geezers just grumble and then walk away.

They say that we're here to make good men better,

But all they do is collect money by letter.

Please give us money for this and for that,

The only thing I seem to be getting is fat.

It's so true that I've gained pound after pound,

Sitting in lodge has made me quite round.

Now I might know why these men never leave,

It's hard to imagine, so hard to conceive,

But imagine if you will, if you can,

A place that can't change, a place that is ran…

By men with their thinkers that have all gone out,

By men and by geezers concerned about clout.

Titles, titles, titles galore,

But to you and to me it’s really a bore.

Men looking for something, anything to gain,

But all it causes the brothers, is great pain.

Not physical, but mental for that is that.

All those guys running, chasing a white hat.

Or purple or gold or red or for blue,

But nothing's awarded to the men who do,

The real work, the ones who without,

Nothing would happen, ever, no doubt.

They work in the quarries with unsung praise

Year after year and days after days.

Until one day they become a past master,

And they realize the new guys are a total disaster.

Nothing's changed in the years since you joined,

You've had wishes and plans and things you have coined,

But nothing, no nothing will make it down range,

Nothing no nothing will ever, ever change.

It once was something you thought you could mold

Back to the thing in which you were told,

Was the heyday of masonry with vigor and vim,

But that new guy, that young guy over there? Screw him.

He thinks he will move and change things a bit,

Not before us past masters have all thrown a great fit.

Well break him, we'll show him just what it means…

To be a Freemason and all it's great scenes.

We'll decode them and show him a fanciful ruse,

By the time he finds out we'll already have the dues.

Year after year had passed on by,

If anyone told you things changed, it’s a lie

Then one day the past masters all died,

And the young men that had always tried

To change the lodge to make it new and great

Suffered until they met the same fate.

No matter the kind of lodge that you've got,

T. O., or Clandy or Regular it's not

Going to last any longer than those

Of other persuasions, they'll lock up and close.

That is why when the kids today ask

I pour my coffee and take out the flask,

I pour some old granddads label that’s red

And I tell them the craft might as well be dead.

The good old days were here and now gone,

The sun is dropping, it’s no longer dawn.

It's setting down and will rise no more,

And then the last lodge too, will shut its front door.

It will fade into history and the candle once lit,

Will be a reminder of the words once writ  

It once was a beautiful and a colorful thing,

But now it's been broken and clipped in the wing.

It's doomed and it's done and all the men said,

This thing will be over just as soon as we're dead.

For they were the very last of their kind,

Of a noble thing, left so far behind.

A thing that was great and had a good chance,

To stay current and fruitful and dance the great dance.

But it all fell apart, right at the seams,

When the old ones didn't let go and stuck with their schemes.

So in the yard where rocks have the words,

Are the last remnants and herald the birds,

On tombstones and plaques which bare the great sign,

Of a once thriving idea, of not yours and not mine…

But for all of humanity to study and to see,

What once was great and could have been yours, for a fee.

Thanks go to Quadmatestes for a very interesting poem. I'm sure some of you are offended but I do believe in giving all Masons a voice, even those feeling disaffected by our Gentle Craft. All voices need to be heard. Comments? Post them below.