Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 21 Apr 06 - 01:23 PM

I am a poor folkie, I will now confess,
I've spent my life singing, and dodging from stress
Escaping hard duties, and avoiding all mess
Until I became captured by a thread of B.S.

I first came to Mudcat some studies to do.
I wanted old lyrics, for good songs and true,
But my diligence crumbled, I confess unto you,
Attacked by bold Rapaire and the Evil Khandu.

Where once I sang truly, and wrote songs so sweet,
Now I crawl to my keyboard, when home from the street.
I clack and I click on the Clickies so neat,
And assaulted by bullshit, am swept off my feet.

I cannot think clearly, my mind's paralyzed
Interpreting wisdom BWL has contrived,
Rustic Rebel's wild poetry, which has crossed both my eyes,
And tracking down works that Rapaire plagiarized.

With footnotes from Stilly to tomes wide and deep
And figments from Little Hawk's brain, who could sleep?
And fearing new flurries from Shatner or Tweed
I am rattled and broken, in word and in deed.

I will go to the country, where the air is so still
Where there's never a spammer, or a Viagara pill,
Where the birds they swing sweetly on Looking Glass Hill,
And the spreading cart's all that the BS does fill.

So now, to the MOAB, good luck or bad cess,
I am bound for far places, my soul for to rest.
Where peace and plain thinking will ease my duress
And there's never a troll, or a whiff of B.S.

But I would not abandon my comrades so free,
Who have shared all my hours 'neath the wide MOAB tree,
I will take kinder measures to your interests to see,
And recruit Martin Gibson to stand in for me.

Willagong Meriwether Pantiwaiste IV,
Googlable Doggerel and other Poems
New Age Productions, San Rafael, 2002