Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 05:58 PM

As I rambled out on the posts of the MOAB,
As I rambled 'round in the MOAB one day,
I spied a curmedgeon a-shovelin' some BS
Shovelin' stuff that used to be hay.

Chorus:

"Oh, shovel it slowly and shovel it lowly,
Play the "Stable Call" you shuffle along,
It'll make your green valley and you flowers bloom gayily
For it's all fertilizer and you can't go wrong."

"I see by your outfit that you hang around MOAB"
These words he did say as I strode by forlorn,
"Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
I've been shovelin' this stuff since the day I was born."

"My friends and relations, they live high in clover,
They know not where this old boy has gone,
I first came to Texas and hired on with a politician
Oh, I'm a curmudgeon and I know I've gone wrong."

"Go write a letter to my hoary-haired Mother,
And carry the same to Stilly so dear,
But not a word of this shall you mention
When a crowd gathers round you my story to hear."

"There is another dearer to me than my Mother,
Dearer to me than my cayuse so free,
There is another who's helped me to shovel,
And I mean, of course, the bold Rapaire."

"Go gather around you a crowd of politicians,
And tell them the story of this, my sad fate;
Tell one and the other before they go further
To stop shoveling their BS, tho' I fear it's too late."

"Oh muffle your drums, and play the pipes merrily
Play "Stable Call" as you go along
And fire your six-guns right into my coffin,
'Cuz given my background, you'll make sureI stay down."

"It was once in the Senate I used to go dashing
Once in the House I used to go gay,
First down to the dram-house and then to the girls' house
But I shoveled too much, and I'm dying today."

"Get six MOABites to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty maidens to carry my pall,
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Roses to deaden the stench as it falls."

"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold lager
To cool my parched lips," this shoveler said;
Before I had turned, the spirit had left him
And he'd gone to his Maker --- the shoveler was dead.

We beat the drum lowly and played the pipes gayily,
And cheered and huzzaed as we bore him along,
We all thought him a broke-dick mammaluca,,
And we thought it as well that now he was gone.

--DeLay Thomas, Shoveling Songs of Old Texas (Austin: Texas Department of State, 1853).