For F. Scott, On Your Birthday Poem by Michael Shutt

On this day,
The twenty fourth -
September,1896-
A lass of Ireland
she did give
Her name, plain
Molly Mcquillin,
From her betrothed -
Brave heritage-
Francis Scott Key
Was in your veins.

Oh Jazz Age
Generation Bow
Before your Prophet -
Callow youth
Give praise to
Herald,

Chronicler;

To Flaming Youth;
Tender the night,
The Last Tycoon-
To Gatsby
and Nick Carroway,

Could you but see
the way you paved.

In Chareleston's time
Before you took
That fateful drink
From bathtub brewed,
oh did you think?
You swilled to fill
Your tortured soul.

You only boozed
To take respite.
My God,
How Tender Is The Night?

And so to Princeton
did you go-
oh Princeton Tiger
Have a blow;
In bathtub gins
Foul haze,
you strove-
Beyond your colors,
Black and Gold.

Pale Ivy's dreams-
New Jerseys
petty circumstance-

This Side of Paradise
you held
A generation
in your spell.

Oh Amory Blaine,
oh what the hell?

Oh damn
Beloved Infidel.

Oh Gregory Peck.
Oh what the hell?

Damn.

Break midwest's anomaly.
from St. Loo-eee
your ancestry,
Called forth from sainted
F. Scott Key-
'Hey Frank, '
You rotgut progeny-

As you did
after war torn night,
Mid rockets glare
And twilight's gleaming,
Can you see the
lonely gleaming?

The Jazz Age Prophet
has his meaning.

In bitter love, Scott,
did you fall.
A Jazz Age
White Hot Baby Doll.

Oh, Zelda,

Sad.

She crisped
Your Soul.

With follies made-up/

Zelda the toll.

You added to
His Goddamned Soul.

So Zelda,
did you give a damn?
Your fragile mind
I cannot blame.

But, really, Zelda,
what the hell?

Through Tender Night,

Through Gatsby's Spell,

what Side of Paradise
You lied?

You Goddamned
rum tossed harridan.

You raved,
You screetched,

J. Gatstby died
A bitter dream.

You never gave
A goddamned choice.

You raped his soul
You crushed his voice.

So go on Scott,,
no judgement here.

Drink deep that
Goddamned draft of beer.

And in a fiery blaze
you went.

Your Soul,
I pray,
to Heaven Sent.

You cursed your
Blessed Wedding Banns.

You damned him
Daisy Buchanan.

And Scott,
Through fears,
And tears
Ans years
fierce bottles battles
have you fought.

Damn, Last Tycoon,

A heavy draught
deep in your gut
Gin's demons haze.

Jay Gatsby,

On false pond you laze.

Love's battle's
fought and won.

Into Green Light's Eternity,

In back laid bare
And snubbed nose gun.

Oh, Scott Fitzgerald,

From your soul,

Cast out
gin soaked debauchery.

Your words are only
What we need
Descendant of
Francis Scott Key.

'Oh Frank.'
'Oh Frank! '
Oh can you see?

The triumph of
your progeny?

Great Gatsby
Lives in memory.

In antique mirror
I turn my gaze.

To Princeton's
errant son I raise
A glass in loving memory.

To J.G.'s father,
Lord the Fright.

How Tender Is
The Forlorn Night?

And so, F. Scott,
of F. Scott Key;
Dear Last Tycoon,
Your life's a boon-

For Jazz Age
Disaffected Youth.

This Autumn Eve
Still shows the truth -

For Gatsby's
halcyon fair days.
Through Flapper's Eyes,
Past Charleston's haze,

still look we to
a tender night-

to J. Gat's doom,

to that green light.

Goddamnit Scott-

That fateful drink-
For curssed gin
You paid a toll.

You gave your soul,

And yet,?

And Yet?

You gave your soul.

Yet how we strive?

Your words, Fitzgerald,
How they last.

A forlorn generation hence;

Fitzgerald,

Gatsby,

still row forth,

Against the current,
Souls we cast-

against the current,
Into the Past.