Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 01 May 06 - 10:57 PM

No, Six, it isa much more than this. Go back to page 1 and read forward. All will become clear.

Oh Rustical Rebel, O, Rebel my dear,
Your wit is so deep, and your eyes are so clear,
Your arms and your fingers are pure, I confess,
But the mind also lingers upon all the rest.
So random and wild are the spins we are in,
When you drift amongst us, your MOABITE kin,
That the end can't be figgered
From where it begins,
In the shadowy tendrils of bullshit.

Oh, BW, BW, BWL,
Whose humor and insight goes too far to tell,
From the Florida sky to his downy deep vale,
Where his clay pots lie patiently drying their tails,
So wicked the flashing of lightning like wit,
As he toils in the earth,
and the storm, and the pit,
Midst the shadowy tendrils of bullshit!

Rapaire in the Northland, where the egos grow tall,
Where space is wide open, and nothing looks small,
Where a man is as big as the blue sky he smells,
And as sturdy and tall as the bullshit he tells,
He's winsome and lithe,
And much more than alive,
In the flowering tendrils
of bullshit!

And Steady-On Stilly, of well-lettered zest,
Transplanted to Texas from the wooly Northwest,
With marvelous treasure hidden deep in her mind,
Which leave all her fellows at MOAB stone blind
So clear and unscarred,
With her dogs, in her yard,
Midst the delicate tendrils of bullshit!

There's dozens of others whose names I could name
Who have conquered the MOAB, who well deserve fame
But I don't have forever, and they know who they are,
Each fellow a poet, and each lass a star
As we follow this spiralling back-slapping trail,
Where no-one can falter, and no-one can fail
Midst the perilous tendrils of bullshit!

Agonistes Perihelion III,
Advocate-General of the Public Weal
Peon Paeans and Those Who Write Them
Byronme and Pisceonyu,
Long Beach, California, 1897