Dear Mom, we're only nineteen posts
From the 26 of K;
And as we near that mighty peak
Your kids would like to say
That it really has beeen great to grow
In a house that's such a mess
Where every room, and every hall
Is lined with pure BS.

Dear Mom, we've all learned many things
From this flood of clever talk,
The plagiarism of Rapaire
And the dreams of Little Hawk
We've learned the wit of BW_Ell,
Who keeps pots against his brain,
The mystic light of Rustic Reb,
And the song of Bunnhabain.

We heard the lonesome blues of Tweed
Spilling into an ocher sea;
And Stilly's bravest words and deeds,
And young Gluon's cosmic glee.
There have been more worlds uncovered here
Than all Horatio's tomes
With duck-dogs, freds, and Chinga Chimp
Enlivening our home.

So Mother, sure, there is no doubt
That we really need to say
Thanks for the ride, as we all head out
Toward the 26 of K.
It is to you we turn our eyes
When burdens grow too great,
And we will grow your BS still,
When the Kays reach twenty-eight.

Raise up your mugs, you MOABites,
ANd give a rousing "Yes!"
As we salute our sainted Mom,
The Mother of All BS.

Donnifrew Gottwinkle IV
The Child's Weekly Reader, December 13, 1893
Vol 7, issue xc