Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 25 Jun 07 - 04:07 PM

We wuz seventeen-nine and eighty
With but twenty more to go,
But the wit was running mighty dry,
An' the posting it was slow.
An' no-one knew if Mom would stick
Or go ahead as planned,
But post by post, and tick by tick,
We looked for eighteen grand.

It is time like these the higher stuff
Of which a human's made
Comes into play, whether strong or wan,
The life-force of the shade.
Who knows whose heart will weaken?
Or who has got the sand,
To draw a line, an' set their mind
On the goal of eighteen grand!

The night is looking dark and black.
No moonlight shows the way.
And every MOABite must choose
For himself what he means to say.
There is no trail, nor pale mile-stone,
To show how lies the land;
Each soul must choose his steps alone,
Heading on toward eighteen grand.

So here's a call to them as hear,
When the BS rides the wind,
Who know the sound of her sacred call
When the dawnlight's pale, and thin;
Ignore the stress, Sons of BS,
And let your fears be banned;
Hear your hymn arise in Mother's eyes,
And the glow of that eighteen grand!

Winifred Perdiem Woandew
Hymns of Fear and Futility
Utah Better Boys Association Publishing Club, 1962