Oh great delight! Full ten bright posts
Have graced this thread, since last I wrote;
Our Mother keeps her honored ghost
Close to her heart, her vibrant note
Is full and rich, and undismayed
By time's erosions, or the rue of days
When unbecoming, foolish sport was played
Upon the ancient tiles of Mother's ways.
So still the thrumming beat pursues
Its timeless, all-fulfilling aim,
And still the poets bravely use,
For their BS, fair Mother's name.
So let it be, so honor fair her soul,
Oh, poets write! And let ye BS roll.

Throckmorton Harris Tump
On Wings of Sand -- Reflections
1915, Burbling-on-Purpis, England