Dear Mom, in just eighteen posts more,
Your count will reach to 700 score,
A towering height, and grounds for satisfaction.
But, let not comon sense yield to distraction
Or pride inflate the spirit past all telling
For brains are oftened ruined, over-swelling.

And lest we be misled by glory's thunder
Remember 14 grand is just a number,
Not a beach-head, summit or high star.
There are toher things which more important are!
Though none can doubt you for endurance,
Let me add, as pride-insurance,

That some songs (metal, acid, ads and rap)
Are not real music -- they're just crap.
Thus with BS -- the world of minds
Can churn it out in different kinds
And measure it in color or degree,
And guage it on its quality.

And whether red, or blue or ochre,
A lot of yours is mediocre.
Having the most does not mean best,
You've miles to go, before you rest.
Therefore, Dear Mom, keep right on walking
No laurels here, or idle talking,
But onward, onward, onward press!

Search on for pure, refined BS,
The kind that makes the roof and rafter
Tremble in unexpected laughter
Or jars the mind out of the soul
And pulls Rapaire out of his hole.
There is the quest, and worth pursuing!
So onward, Mom! Be up and doing!

Winnifred Insecurity Viagara Spamm IV
"Poems of a Thousand Monkeys"