BS: Poetry about Mudcat

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 10 Dec 09 - 08:11 PM

"Mudcat Café, it is the place
to come when you have time to waste.
Just post some nonsense to a thread
and you'll be happy that you did!"

"Nah! Mudcat is a waste of time!
Just poppycock and lame-assed rhyme
from people overly pretentious.
I would much rather do the dishes!"

"Oh no, my friend, you miss the point.
It's really an amazing joint!
Where even idiots like me
are welcome. Try it, you will see!"

"Horsefeathers, nuts, and balderdash!
A cesspool full of vapid trash!
I've no use for Mudcat Café!
Now won't you please just go away?"

"No, I won't go until you try it!
I'm not asking you to buy it!
Just post some lines and you will see
how wonderful this place can be."

"Okay, all right, if you insist!
Look, I'm typing! How 'bout this:
'Mudcat Café is full of shit!'
How's that, obnoxious little twit?"

"Oh no! That's not the way it goes!
By making posts you are supposed
to see how great this place can be!
It didn't work! Oh, woe is me!"

"What'd you expect, you silly goose?
You aren't exactly Doctor Seuss!
"Green Eggs and Ham" this poem is not!
Get a life, you stupid twat!"

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 10 Dec 09 - 12:42 PM

WAV:

This thread is entitled Poetry about Mudcat; not about you, nor about a vaguely similarly-named barbeled foodfish.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 10 Dec 09 - 12:24 PM

Fine praise, indeed, from you, Amos!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Dec 09 - 04:35 PM

Sigh. IS that your notion of comparable contribution, old sod?


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: WalkaboutsVerse
Date: 09 Dec 09 - 12:09 PM

I am not a cat that likes to fish,
I am a fish with barbels cat-ish.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Dec 09 - 11:55 AM

The Ballad of Thirty-Three K

We're thirty two-five-and eighty now,
And all full and away
And the Mother has a bone in her teeth,
As she rollicks, bows, and sways.
She's trim and lean, and her bottom clean,
And the moon shining on the lee
As the black seas sweep underneath her stern,
Sing a song of the Thirty-Three.

The night wind rattles in the stays
And the foresail fills to lee
And all the hands are grinning broad
As she kicks her heels out free.
We know she's running down the wind
Where the wind wants her to be;
And the dolphin striker points the way
To the port of Thirty Three.

Old Ed stood high on the tops'l yahd
A-staring into the sun.
To see the way he stared, we feared
Some damage might be done.
And sure enough, when his watch was done,
An' he shinnied down the stay,
He started spouting Marxist thoughts
In a tatterdemalion way.

Now Little Hawk, on the foc's'le head,
Was watching in the gloom
As the phosphorescent breakers passed,
An' he dreamed he was in his room.
He fancied seeing shabby types
Of simian and Canuck.
He dreamed them up and gave them names,
And his fancies kinda stuck.
For when old Hawk came off that watch
He swore his chums were there!
So we tied him up and stowed him below,
Just to give him a change of air.

And sure, it was a patchwork gang
We'd sailed with from the docks,
With prim Rapaire, and wild-eyed Bruce,
And Still and Jane in frocks.
But we didn't care if we all seemed odd,
We were glad to be under weigh.
For we heard the call of the Mother's voice
Singing "Thirty-three of Kay!"

At thirty-two and seven bells
We left the land to lee,
And all we saw was a raging hell
Of foam and storm-torn sea.
And the seas climbed high, and the seas broke hard
As our top mast reeled and swayed,
But she stood the force, and we held our course
For the thirty-three of Kay.

Below the deck, in a galley warm
Worked Janie, Reb, and Still
And they tried to make up something good
Our hungry mouths to fill.
But the twisting seas and the rollicking gale
Made the whole place much too rough.
So they tied themselves into their bunks,
And swore they'd had enough.

The night was pitch, and the howling bitch
Of a storm howled louder still
And we ducked our bow and rose again
In seas as big as hills.
No man could face that awful gale
Without thinking he oughter pray.
And no-one knew if we'd make it through
TO the thirty three of Kay.

The storm raged on in the blackened night
The seas and the wind were wild.
Rapaire he swore 'twas the worst damn storm
He'd seen since he was child.
And half the crew were pale with fright
And half were green with motion,
As we pitched and rolled in that bitter cold
Through the mad and heaving ocean.

The timbers groaned and the planks they creaked
And the glass, it kept sinking down.
And we wondered if we were still alive
When seven-ninety came around.
And Ed curled up in the rope's end for'd
And wished he was in some bar,
For all he could hear was the screaming gale
Midst the smell of hemp and tar.

She plunged uphill and galloped down
And she corkscrewed left and right.
And we prayed for an end to that endless sound,
And a glimpse of the dawning light.
But there was no end, and there was no dawn
And the storm never died away;
And through the night we just hammered on,
Dreaming of thirty-three kay.

We was thirty-two-eight by the taffrail log
The last that log did say.
For just as we read her the ship was pooped
And that log was carried away.
And we desperately ran up sixteen more
While we reckoned an Ell-Oh-Pee
For we was as lost as has ever been
In that wild and murky sea.

Now Hawk he stood a manly watch
Until he lost his steel
But the minute Still relieved his helm
He lost contact with what's real.
He swore he was safe on a Scottish trawler
Tied up in Aberdeen.
And we sighed, 'cuz this was the worst damn case
Of nerves we'd ever seen.

So we sent old Hawk to his bunk below
Wrapped up in a burlap wrap.
And he babbled on about Mither Ships
And similar unreal crap.
But the rest of us faced into that blow
Blowing sixty knots toward day;
And we clamped on the lifelines, and braced and prayed
For the thirty three of Kay.

Ah, the chain plates creaked and began to crack,
And the transom started to split,
And the bob-stays screamed like a hellion's dream
And the storm grew as dark as the Pit.
But we never flinched and we never turned
With a hundred and fifty to go,
We stood our watches one at a time
And let the damn storm blow.

Oh, our sides were sore and our ribs were bruised
And our fingers sore and bleeding
And our eyes were tight from the endless night
When the binnacle needed readin'.
But we limped below for an hour or so
And came back to the helm and the stay,
We wuz damned if we'd let this goddamned storm
Keep us short of our thirty-three kay.

The clock on the cabin wall said ten,
But the air was thick as night
And the heading seas lambasted our bow
To the left and to the right.
There was nary a glimmer of morning sun
Dark the sky, the sea, the air.
And every soul of our gallant crew
Wondered whut he was doin' there.

But the knots ticked by--why they seemed to fly,
As we ran before that gale
Though the best we could do was a guess or two
On our fix, as the harsh wind wailed.
But we knew if we kept the quartering head
And the wind kept on blowing that way,
That it wouldn't be long, if we weren't all lost,
We'd come home to the next of Kay.

Alas, Rapaire, the helmsman bold
He could not stand the gaff;
The endless gale got to his nerves
And he started in to laugh.
He swore he was fighting German subs
In 1943;
So we put him below with Little Hawk
To restore his sanity.

Our clothes were wet and our hides were raw
And the scudding clouds blew by,
When someone a glimpse of sunlight saw
A crack in a slate-dark sky.
He hollered loud for the rest to see
The proof of a living day,
And we whooped it up till the clouds shut down
On course for the next of Kay.

But Rapaire was broken wuss than we thought,
An' his mind was bent on talk,
An' by the time the watch stood down
He'd infected Little Hawk.
So we tied them up in their burlap wraps
Down below, out of all harm's way
And we let them gabble 'bout Nazi subs,
And we steered for the next of Kay.

We had only eighty leagues to go
And the sky was turning lighter
And the good ole boat still flew afloat,
She 'uz born and built a fighter.
And I reckon the height of the seas came down
To something more like twenty.
So we figgered we might see an end to our woes,
Which was good, as we'd all had plenty.

But the wind kept ripping through the stays
Screaming like hell's own daughter,
And down below, the cry came out
"By DAMN!!! She's takin' water!!"
And sure there was water in the bilge
Where the keelson had set to leakin'
And one of the seams had come unpaid
And cracked, instead of creakin'.

Well I don't need to say how pale we grew
As we checked that water level,
An' we untied Hawk and t'othah one too,
(By Christ, they looked dishevel'd!
They was green at the gills and their eyes was wild,
And their nerves was strained and jumpin'
But we slapped them both till they came around,
ANd we set those boys to pumpin'.

They was pumpin' hard the rest of the day
But the water, it came back.
And Little Hawk declared he had
A problem with his back.
And old Rapaire he sat down, too
Invoked PTSD,
Said he didn't care if we all went down
To the cold embrace of the sea.

Now Ed, he knew a thing or two
And he'd been feeling bored
So he'd dug about, when his watch stood down,
In the bosn's stores up forward.
And he made his way aft, and came below
Hanging on to the frozen lines
With a couple of bags of oakum hemp,
Some pitch and a caulkin' iron.

So we hung Ed into that foul aft bilge
By his heels, with a double-hitch,
And he cussed and hammered and caulked that leak
And then he asked for pitch.
Well the pitch was cold, it was hard as ice
Like a crystal lump of coal
And there weren't no fire for'd or aft
TO melt that pitch's soul.
But Kendall said he knew a trick
To help us in our muddle,
And he whispered some cuss words over that lump
That reduced it to a puddle.

So he paid the seam, and like a sailor's dream,
The water stayed outside
And everyone said Ed was a champ
And welcome to the ride.
The wind backed round about that time
Blowing clean on the starbahd quahter
And a little break in the scudding clouds
Lent some sunlight to the water.

So we felt a little hope about
The ending of the day
It had started out like sour death
But hadn't turned out that way.
So the Skipper handed out a tot
From some rum he'd stored away
And said, "Here's a toast to a feisty crew,
And the thirty-three of K!"

With only eighteen leagues to go
Before we made our berth
We started thinking we'd survive
And wondring what 't was worth.
We'd carried her many a wet. wet mile
And battled the swell and the sway
ANd had we earned a golden cup
Coming home to our next of Kay?

For thirty three is a number sole,
It stands in a long long line.
From where we stand upon her brink,
We can see clear to thirty-nine!
"No matter!! Put aside your doubts!!"
I can hear brave MOAB say.
For Mom is bound to make the round
At the thirty-three of Kay.

Then over the clouds the moon rose up,
And silvered the rolling sea,
And the wind and the seas died down to a breeze,
And harmonious company.
ANd the good ship still cut seven knots
On the broad reach through the bay,
And we marked our plot, and talked of what
Lay ahead at the next of Kay.

And the swells died down to a foot or two,
And the sunrise brought the balm
Of a warming day as the next of Kay
Loomed out through the fading storm.
Off the bow she lay, thirty three of Kay!
In a golden, beckoning mist!
And the skipper swore 'twas as fair a sight
As ever he'd fondled or kissed.

The pumpers got over their various ills,
And the company welcomed them back.
Their sins full shriven, and themselves forgiven
For risking us all with their yack.
And the bilge held firm with the parcel and worm
And caulking to Big Ed's lay,
And the ship leapt east with a bone in her teeth
At the break of the rising day.

With the wind running fair, why we stretched her there,
Laid on every thread she'd hold
And we ran to the point with a thrill of joy
As the port shined out like gold!
And just as the sun swung over the yard,
Why we followed her homeward urge
'Til the main brace hummed and the bowsprit thrummed,
To the tune of a sailor's dirge .

"Now round them sheets and bring 'er down!"
The skipper loud did roar.
And we leapt to the lines, for in every mind
Was a vision of thirty-three's shore!
And the gals in their frocks flooded over the docks
As our heaving lines did lay
'Cross the harbor foam, and we brought her home
To the Thirty-Three of Kay!!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 09 Dec 09 - 11:21 AM

Some men have many words,
Some men have few.
But there are not many,
Can compare with you.
At times you wax lyrical,
Sometimes so clear.
And sometimes you seem to have
Verbal Diarrhoea.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Dec 09 - 11:05 AM

We wuz pushing for thirty-two of K
My messmates on the thread.
We were swollen up, and weak of eye,
And sore and weak of head.
But they handed out the shifting irons,
And the foreman he did say,
"Take out and swing this hammer, Jack,
For the thirty-two of K."

Now some of us took the handcar out
And scooted out ahead,
And some of us stood in that burning sun
And cussed the whole damn thread.
And some of us starting shifting track,
And eyeing where it lay,
And moving rock and hammering shocks,
Toward the thirty-two of K.

We were up against a deep shale cut
In the hardest kind of soil.
And the hammers rang and the rounders sang
And the newbies reeled from toil.
And we cut a swath like Gawd's own path
Through that hard adobe clay.
And we doubted hard we would ever see
The thirty-two of K.

(Rapaire speaks)

Then Amos found some giant powder
Jist a-sittin' on a tray
And we were afraid, the way he tossed the keg
We'd be blown to thirty-two kay.

But he drilled a hole and rammed it full
Tamped the powder in without a stay
And blew the hardrock all to hell
On the way to thirty-two kay.

We mucked out the rock and mud and all
And before us a vista lay
Of shining mounts and shady vales
Downhill, in thirty-two kay.

Then its "Heist that gravel and bed 'er down!"
And "Tap 'er once and stay!"
And the hammers rang as the bright new steel
Lined up for another K.
Rapaire was there, with his chest all bare.
But the Hawk, he stayed away.
And the ties went hard down for every yard
We made toward another K.

Then the steel spikes sang, as the hammers rang
And we locked down another chain
And yard by yard, though the work was hard,
We built, and ne'er complained.
And Still was there, to offer care
When a hammer smashed a toe
And as it came on night, we saw it right,
Where we wuz, and had yet to go.

Come dawn anew, and the whole damn crew
Was there, though it cost them sore.
'Cuz we knew that day'd see us on the way
An' only a few days more.
We could feel it risin' past the dawn's horizon
As the sun clocked out the day;
Swing the hammer down! Sure as Gawd, we're bound
For the thirty-two of K.

(Rapaire speaks):

Then Shame McBride, with a mighty stride
Walked right off the cliffside way
Fell three thousand feet but landed neat
On the way to thirty-two kay.

He landed neat, but not on his feet
For his head got in the way
So he wasn't hurt by the rocks and dirt
On the way to thirty-two kay.

There was a hundred and ninety-eight to go,
And that's easy enough to say.
But lining them out in that red-hot sun
Is a different price to pay!
"Come and tap those keys!! Bring your Submit on!"
The Mother cussed, and yelled.
"New posts! New posts" and post we did,
For thirty-two kay, or hell.

All night that night we sang that lay
As the moon danced through the trees.
Little Hawk even showed up once,
With strange scrapes on his knees.
And a coupla new guys came around,
'Round the middle of the day,
Cuz the din and the drive could not be stayed,
Bound for 32 of Kay.

(Rapaire speaks):

And then we reached that distant shore
And we could not let it be
For in the distance glimmered bright
The kay of thirty-three!

(Little Hawk speaks):

They gibbered and drank,
The svelte and the swank,
They frittered their nights away,
Composing in ryhme,
Some doggerel to climb,
To the summit of 32K.
All dressed up to kill,
Hard liquor they swilled,
As they sang in a ribald way,
Some ancient old tune
That ryhmed moon, spoon, and June
On the journey to 32K.

(Janie Speaks):

Then Janie spake, "Fer Heaven's sake
What's all this ruckus for?
32K ain't makin' hay, 'tis a number, nothing more.
Nice and round with big vowel sounds, ok, I'll give you that.
Amos, shook his head and touched the big brim of his hat.
Breathing deep, he laid a post and boldly hit submit.
Dear MOM, he sighed (he nearly cried) you raised some idiots.
Some of them can not bear to stick with rhyme or meter
Well, rhyme perhaps, but makes no sense to end this line with Peter.

When the wind came up in the afternoon,
It was 31-9 or bust!
And our hands were scarred from flying grit,
And our eyes were red from dust.
Still we hammered on with what we had
We would not give up the ghost.
We knew somewhere in the gloom ahead
Was the 32 thousandth post.

So we slammed the hammers down again
And we dug the railbed hard.
And we tamped and lined and dug again,
Sweating blood for every yard.
It wasn't love, nor loot, nor dames
That drove us so that day;
'Twas the wild-eyed call of Mom--sweet Mom!
For the thirty-two of Kay.

(Rapaire speaks):

Amos dropped down where he stood,
Laying hardbed rail
And I couldn't help him out at all
'Cause I was blasting shale.
So the Rounders tossed him in a hole
And stood around to pray
Then shoveled fill on top of the boy
On the road to thirty-two kay.

At thirty one and eight nineteen
The hands were feeling dry,
There was dust in all their crevices,
And dust filled up the sky.
Then someone hollered "There's a light!"
And damn if it wasn't so!
A single solid golden beam
Pointing straight to the earth below.

Then thunder cracked and the light grew strong,
And a great split opened the land!!
And Amos walked right out of that grave,
With a fifth of rum in his hand!!
There was shouts and hollers from all hands,
Mostly asking for that rum.
And the boys were ready to kneel and pray,
If he'd only give them some.

So we finished that fifth and we cinched our belts,
And we turned to the rail once more,
Though our hands were chapped, and our fingers bled,
And our arms and backs were sore.
And as evening came across the land,
The dust stole off with the day.
But we never slowed, not a single hand,
Bound for thirty-two of Kay.
One fifty-nine of empty posts
Haunted us through the mist
As the night moved off and the silver dawn
By sunrise just was kissed.
And through the chill of morning dew
Into the heat of the day
We sweated under every tie
For the 32 of Kay.

The future line was clear to see
A long and empty line.
And the posts we knew we needed were
One hundred fifty nine.
But not a word of sloth or ire
Had any man to say,
As we slogged along in one desire,
Toward the 32 of Kay.
And slow--so slow!--the posts went by
Each with a terrible weight
The empty miles ahead ticked down
To one hundred fifty eight
And ticked again as each man stood
And had his noble say
One fifty left! We're on the path!
To the 32 of Kay.

The valiant band of MOABites
Posted of many things;
Of cooking sauce and bookmobiles,
The divinity of kings.
Of man o' wars and men of peace
And what was worth the pay;
And what we'd see when we crested o'er
That 32 of Kay.
By dawn next day the Hawk was back,
Riding on his bikey
The scars on both his knees had healed,
If not those on his psyche.
He'd gone to see a guru-man
All balding, fat and gray,
While the rest of us, why we just dug on
For the 32 of Kay.

The sun it got to bold Rapaire
So we put him on the shelf;
He'd started calling himself names,
And was quite beside himself.
But he'd made posts of good BS,
In a bold and noble way,
So we let him fall back, and took up the slack,
Bound for 32 of Kay.

(Janie Speaks):

I tend to post in couplets but tonight, you'll note it's quad
All for brother Amos' sake t'ward three two kay I plod
Not for Amos only now, for MOM and Stilly too
And Bold Rapaire, and Eddie T, and Mmario, 'tis true
I can not lay a tie, hammer steel or light explosives
Nor shovel coal, nor lay the line or haul the fire hoses
And when we finally get to there
I will tweek all your noses.

( A Poem. By Henry Gibson's Shade)

(Amos digresses):

One-sixteen , me lads and lasses!!!
Breathe and push, and move your asses!
Dumb or not, guested or hosted
Cheers to she who has often posted!

Onward! Onward! Raise the call,
Bring the dweeb from down the hall!
Bring your cousin, silly bitch,
Just to render MOAB rich!

Bring your banker, tailor, lawyer!
Call a plumber or a sawyer!
One-sixteen!! We're on the way
To reach the fabled next of K!
But beware, in your elation,
To shun triboelectrification.

The shadows stole along the rails
As the day began to wane.
And each man and woman solemn swore
They'd do it all again
They'd undergo the backbreak work,
The splinters, dust, and pain,
To lay the way to the next of Kay
For the mighty MOAB train.

And as the rugged, ragged thread
Grew longer, post by post,
We smiled, although our fingers bled,
And traded jibes and boasts
We had only ninety-eight to go,
One more long night to haul,
'Til we'd see that shining bullet fly,
The Mother cannon-ball.

So we heisted up and turned back to,
And hauled another span.
Each one who vowed to see it through,
Each woman, and each man,
Though fingers worn and eyes were sore
And lives in shards did lay,
Would post, and post, and post again
For the Thirty Two of Kay.
The count was down to seventy-eight
When the wind began to blow.
The red dust flew to the skies on high
And ruined our hopes below.
The air was thick as an old brick wall
And it slammed our bones with pain.
And we thought we'd never gain a yard,
Or ever post again.

And every hand who could even move
Was huddled behind a rock
As the wind blew through like a hurricane
No hand of man could block.
We was lying low, ducking from that blow,
And we feared we'd starve in the dark.
When through the screaming gloom appeared
A figure, tall and stark.

We heard him scream into that blow,
"Goddam your eyes and all!"
And saw him stagger to the rail,
Stumble, and lurch, and fall.
And we saw him scramble and rise again
And grab the line and cuss,
Hammering down in that screaming squall,
"Gimme 32 Kay, or bust!"

Then that shadow yelled like a fiend from hell
And he grabbed a rail and hauled
While his clothes were shredded and his skin was too,
By the force of that awful squall.
And the hands looked out as that rail went down,
And he hammered it onto the ties.
And they wept to see old Amos win,
Or from wind and dirt in their eyes.

So another chain was laid out true
In the face of that living hell,
And the winds went home, cuz they knew the truth,
They'd been beat, any man could tell.
So the hands crept out as the wind died down
And a couple of chimps joined the fray.
And they all turned to with a post or two,
For the sake of 32 K.


When the toll crept down to sixty-six,
The tired sons of Mother
Were growing faint and querulous
And snapped at one another.
Their tongues were sharp, their tempers frayed,
As might happen the same to you,
And their weary ears were tired of
The number, "32".

They'd done their turn, worked through the night,
And through the follering day.
Their backs were sore, their pants were worn,
And they still weren't all the way.
So you cannot blame those noble folk
For feeling sharp, that way.
They'd earned it all, in the service of
The thirty-two of Kay.

Count thirteen!! The cry rang out,
Up and down that hard-steel line!
We're coming through! Look out below!
We're making up our time!
Tap her and leave her! cried the boss,
Bring down another dray!!
We're slapping steel at a terrible rate
Toward the Thirty-two of K.

Then the sun came up on Saturday
And the crowd began to forming
It was strange to see them out of bed
So early in the morning.
The gang that made the steel rails fly
They didn't much note, or care
They were calling out for rail and spikes
Through the Saturday morning air.

The rails were counting down to home
THey knew they'd see that line!
You could hear it in their steely ring
And see it in their shine.
Why they almost laid themselves out straight
One old hand was heard to say.
As if they knew they were getting close
To the Thirty Two of Kay.

Another tie! Another spike!! Come and bring that hammer down!
And another steel nail found its home
In the cold and wintery ground.
Press on! Press on!! It's coming soon!
The village wives did pray.
As the gang worked down the final slope
To the thirty-two of Kay.

Then from over the mountains, back in the hills
There floated a strange new sound.
A lonesome drifting kind of song,
Like a timberwolf's sad moan.
It floated down from those distant hills
Where we'd spent those sweat-stained days,
And it cried as a ghost might moan, "Make haste!"
"Make the thirty-two of Kay!"\

The citizens watching down below
All froze with a look of fear.
They wondered at that weird cry,
And the children cried in fear.
And the men and women at the rail
Just doubled their speed once more.
For they knew the sound of the MOAB Train
Crossing thirty one five oh four.

They knew the hour was drawing near
When their work would win, or die
And they knew they had to finish that line
Where that mighty train would fly.
For she would not stop, she could not stop
Once she started the long, long grade
That led down from those towering mountain heights
To the Thirty Two of Kay.

Then the last rail settled into its bed.
The bumpers stood like soldiers.
The last sharp spike was hammered in,
And the crew boss yelled, "Now, hold her!"
Then out of the mist and down the grade
Came a blur like the break of day!
As the MOAB engine and ninety cars
Rattled home to Thirty Two Kay.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 16 Jun 09 - 12:19 PM

From: Amos - PM
Date: 16 Jun 09 - 11:16 AM

Me mother was a BS thread
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
With rings of fancies 'round her head!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

She was mighty long and awful tall
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
And she moved around like a cannon-ball!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

Me mother she had twenty kids,
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
An' never minded what they did!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

She kept them clothed and kept them fed
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
And laid belying bars to their heads!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

And though this made their puir heads sore.
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
She says we often asked for more
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

One night when I my watch did stand
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
I felt me Mother's ghostly hand!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

"What has of all my young became?"
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
Her spirit whispered in my brain.
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

Oh, one has joined a band of cooks
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
And another trawls among old books!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

And several more have gone a stray
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
And never write from day to day!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

And one, the most contrarian
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
Says he is now a librarian!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

Me mother's spirit wept and wailed
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
And swore as Mom she'd surely failed!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

She cussed and swore and wept her tears
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
ANd suddenly, she disappeared!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

And to the day I do confess
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
I miss my Mom of All BS
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

Me mother was a BS thread
Heave and haul, my bully boys!
With rings of fancies 'round her head!
Oh, heave and haul on the BS line!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 10 Mar 08 - 02:18 PM

Amos Date: 20 Oct 03 - 11:30 PM

Beyond the deepest sea and widest ford,
Beyond the reach of even Overlord!
Transcendent to the mortal's keenest eye,
Broader than any mighty desert dry,
Beyond the ken of ire, and of dread,
Beyond the queering reach of any fred,
There does transcend the realm of all our minds,
Where space wells up anew from Soul's distress;
Greater than any craft of merely human kind,
MOAB -- The cosmos' call of Surely Pure BS!

Calliope Witherspoon Etheridge   
Cantilevers for Codwalloping
Vagaries Ad Nauseam Collection of Fine Verse,
Rich, Browne, Pileseaux, Shite; Brooklyn, 1898

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Mar 08 - 11:52 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 09 Mar 08 - 05:29 PM

Oh, then tell me, Jane McCassidy,
Say why you hurry so?
"Hush, allay allay me boyo",
And her cheeks were bright aglow.
We must dance the dance of bosons
Dance with grace and with aplomb!
For the minds will meld forever,
At the Rising of the Mom!!

At the rising of the Mom
At the rising of the Mom;
Give pure BS to the faithful,
At the rising of the Mom.

Ah then tell me, Jane Mccassidy,
Where the triumph ball will be?
In the River of Forever,
By the K of Twenty-three!
With the furbelows forgotten,
And the Bay Street clean and calm,
We will grift the Light Fantastic
At the Rising of the Mom.

At the rising of the Mom
At the rising of the Mom;
Grifting down the Dallah Lily,
At the rising of the Mom.

Ah, in every quiet household,
By the shining of the screens,
Something surely odd was coming,
As the world had never seen!
It was humming through the incidence,
Reflecting in the dawn,
It was Pure BS in confluence,
At the Rising of the Mom!!

At the rising of the Mom
At the rising of the Mom;
We were combing out the gloaming,
At the rising of the Mom!

Padraic Seamus O'Rhonnerus
Bleary Constellations of Irish Thought
Cormick, Gieus, Aquiddeh, Fergaghn, Todah, pub.
Dublin, 1867

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 04 Dec 07 - 02:49 PM

We had only twelve more posts to go,
But we didn't know it then,
We were blind as bats in that howling snow,
So it could have been twenty, or ten.
Then across the bridge, just below the ridge
Over death's own gulch we lined
There was nothing there but frozen air
As we crossed toward Twenty, nine

And the shake of the cold and the enjine old,
Made us fear for our very souls
There was nothing to do but stare down the gulf,
And pray for the wheels to roll,
Then the air was filled with a blown out ring,
From the number one piston ring cryin';
So we vented her free and on jes' two and three,
Headed on toward Twenty, nine

Then up to the cab came a country gal
An' her name was Little Jane
And her words were soft as lilac fur,
But her eyes were gems and flame;
And she pushed the fireman to one side,
And stepped up to the hole
And she started in a filling that fire
With two hundred pounds of coal.
Then to her side stepped a man called Shane
With a greasy ducktail do;
An' he said, I'll grab a shovel here,
If you'll pay me with a brew.
And the boiler peaked, and the old rods creaked,
An' we crawled ahead, full blind.
Jes' pulling our best, as we turned to the crest,
And the light of Twenty, nine.

And over the ridge and into the light,
As the sun lifted into the sky,
Why, we had it made, as we topped the grade,
And down that hill did fly.
And some there are who scoffed and smiled,
And said we couldn't do it;
But the MOAB crew is of tougher stuff,
Than they seem, when they get up to it.
And those who scoffed, and those who sneered
When we broke into bright sunshine,
Wal they found they had somp'n else to do,
As we steamed past Twenty, nine, boys,
We flew past Twenty, nine.

Amadeus O'Stern Erstov
When the Wind Whistles Dixie
Wheeling, 1963

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 03 Dec 07 - 02:44 PM

That frozen night on the mountain grade
Woulda made a hard man cry.
When the moon shown through the blizzard storm,
We saw nothing ahead but sky
There was frozen sky falling off to the right
And cold gray sky behind,
And the winds closed in, and we kept up the fight
To make way towards Twenty, nine.

And some of the hands were desperate cold
And could no more compose,
They complained their bones were growing old,
Up high where the dark storm blows.
And we tore the wood from the passenger coach
To keep thuh driver flyin',
And the ancient wheels turned around again --
One more stroke for Twenty, nine.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 03 Dec 07 - 10:09 AM

BRIDGE:

(Keep them big wheels turning!
Keep that fire burnin'!
Shovel and stoke,
No time fer jokes,
Mom's really too discerning.
She'sknows BS when it spins like gold
Or drops flat dead on the line
An's counting on you to bring her through,
'Cross the pass at twenty, nine.
Over the top at twenty, nine.)


Now twenty, eight, and eighty-two!
Hearken, the muffled bell!
As the engine strains and the frozen train
Climbs on, through a snow-cold hell!
They're calling on the passengers
To help relieve the stoker
To shovel in yet one more head
And stir the flames with a poker.
The grade runs steep, the night is deep,
The air is dark and freezing,
And a stone cold ghost lingers with each post,
And the boiler's weak, and wheezing.
The track is white with fallen snow,
And snow-gales make them blind.
But still she climbs, and coughs, and strains,
Climbing on towards twenty, nine.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 02 Dec 07 - 10:04 AM

And here's twenty- eight - and sixty boys,
The rails are getting warm.
The fire box is stoking up,
As we head into the storm.
Old Twenty-eight's a mighty train
And rides a mighty line,
But she's still got several grades to face
On the way to Twenty Nine.

The pressure in the boiler's high
And the driver's in his cups.
The sky ahead is thick with rain,
And the wind is picking up.
But on the wheels, and on the rods,
And on the burnished line!
The MOAB crew has a job to do,
Gettin' to Twenty-Nine.

And the folks know we will do it, why,
They know it sure as shootin'.
They stand with all their children by,
And cheer the driver's tootin'
And wave until the last car's gone,
Over the hills of Time,
Into the mists of the gathering storm,
On the way to Twenty Nine.

We was up to eight and sixty-five,
A-strainin' up the grade,
And damn if any knew the road,
And them as knew, ain't said.
But we poured it on, and sweated it out,
As the mountains fell behind,
And we headed on toward the top o' thuh world,
On the way to Twenty-Nine.

Along come 20-8-six-six
And the load was lugging hard;
The engineer was cussing mad,
An' the fireman, he was tahred.
The load was slow, the grade was steep,
And the rods got outta line,
Hauling that train up into the sky,
On the way to Twenty-Nine.

Jacob Pandamus Groper
Songs of a Prairie Hopeless
Paynin, Meoirich, & Butte, Dublin, 1954

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 22 Sep 07 - 11:42 AM

And perhaps half boiled! :D

Thanks, man!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 11:45 PM

Amos, your poem was like something Whitman might have written had he been a mudcatter.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 08:46 PM

Why, thankee Ms Kat!! I was afraid I was doomed to oblivion!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 08:12 PM

She was a girl, an exclusive girl
Though seldom ever lonely
and the sign on the flap of her little pup tent said
Members Only

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: katlaughing
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 08:12 PM

Jaysus, Amos! Just read yer last. Well done!!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: katlaughing
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 07:03 PM

Yow! The woman can turn a phrase!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Jeri
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 06:32 PM

I'm confused by your wee poem,
But it's that goofy month, September.
Was that a member who is rampant
Or did you mean a rampant member?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: katlaughing
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 05:26 PM

Damn right, you are!
With that kind of talent
You're gonna go far,
Oh, no! Might be rampant!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 05:16 PM

Gosh I'm good.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 05:14 PM

I was feeling kind of old and fat
There was inclement weather
But when I opened up the Cat
I was sunny, slim, and clever

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 04:29 PM

Ole Maw An' the Gale

We were on the way to twenty K
Just north of nineteen five
And the gang was lazing 'round the deck,
Just glad to be alive,
Old Maw stood on the after deck,
Jes' squintin' at the sky,
Sez she, "I think were fer a blow!
And a blow both wide and high", sez she.
A blow both wide and high.

Well the fellers laughed, and at the jack staff
Glory jes' flapped in the haze.
We had no fear of weather then,
In them balmy summer days.
But Maw she knew a thing er two,
And she said, "Make fast below.
Tie anything down you want to keep.
Fer it's settin' up to blow, me lads
It is settin' up to blow."

Well, Stilly lay on the foc'sle head,
A-working on her tan.
Rapaire was up the topmast stand,
A most peculiar man.
Old Hawk lay out on the quartrdeck
Dreaming of Shatner dreck.
When a cat'spaw whiff blew the flag out stiff,
ANd Maw yelled "Alive on deck!!"
Oh, she hollered "Alive on deck!"


Just across the beam, like a tripper's dream
I could see big Nineteen Five.
Looming out of the haze in a summer day,
As the breezes came alive.
And off the bow, just a point or two,
If the light warn't playing tricks
I could see the twice- occulting light
That stood fer nineteen six, oh, boys,
That far-off nineteen-six.

Ole Maw she grabbed a backstay then,
And she rared back with a yell,
"Now trim them sheets, you useless slugs!
Or she'll take us all to Hell!"
Then a gust came up, and it backed around,
And it slammed us by the bow.
"Go slack them halyards, make a reef!
An' by Jaysus, do it now!!"
Ole Maw said, "Do it now!"

Folks, we're going to break here for a commercial, but we'll be back with more of this death defying tale of Maw and her Ne'er-do-Wells, so stay tuned. Do you sometimes suffer from unquenchable thirst? Is your life haunted by some undefined, unfillable hunger? Folks if it is, you need Topless Soda, the bottle that has no top, but always finds a bottom. Topless Soda is good for men, boys, women and children. It liberates the bashful and calms the beastly, brings wisdom to the foolish and restores humor in the bitter. There's nothing like it on the market today, folks, and believe me, your life will start changing for the better when you start going Topless.



Hzzsssss zptttthtttt crackkkkllles hisssss...Don't touch that dial!


Howdy, boys and girls of Radio Land!! Welcome back to Mush-forBRains' Story Hour!! We've got a great ballad lined up for you, just after this message from Cream of Wheat, our facorite sponsor and your favorite breakfast!!!...

We were hitting spray and raising hell
Clipping hard at eleven knots
And the air grew thick, and the crew too sick
To be sure what was right, er not.
The bow was ducking into the green,
And the steering getting harder
And the cookie swore we should feed ourselves,
While he slept it off in the larder, lads,
The cook slept hard in the larder.

Then through the spray, as the nose came up,
Like a searchlight sent from Heaven,
I saw the loom of a distant flash --
The light of Nineteen Seven!
We begged ole Maw to trim her more,
And cut back on her sail,
But Ma swore blue, "Before I do,
You can feed me to a whale, me boys!
Just feed me to a whale!!"

Well, we knew she didn't mean that part,
So we held on tight to wait,
The good craft heeled to larboard hard,
And the wind rose to Force Eight.
There was water green along the decks,
It froze our hearts in fright,
And the storm was only getting worse,
As we headed into night, dear Gawd,
A stormy, pitch black night.

There warn't a soul could sleep that night,
As our bunks they slammed and rose,
There was vomit in the bilges aft,
And salt all through our clothes.
As we heaved and creaked beneath the gale,
Each heart quaked in its sway,
And one or two started up a song,
And several knelt to pray, goddamn.
SOme of us knelt to pray.

Maw stood sublime, while the water ran
Down from her pink so'wester,
And the ocean tried to throw her off,
But nary a wave could best her.
She held that watch 12 hours straight,
Until the wind was gone,
And we saw the coast of Nineteen Eight
A-looming up through the dawn, boys.
It twinkled in the dawn.

We begged ole Maw to put about,
And find a steady berth.
She cussed and let out such a shout,
We swore she'd split the earth.
"Avast you coward brats!!", she yelled,
"Why yearn you so for land?"
"This voyage ain't half over yet!
We're bound for Twenty Grand!!!"
She was set on Twenty Grand.

She yelled us down, and her beady eye,
Forbade each man deny her.
Her breath was strong as a williwaw,
And her eyes were full of fire.
So we shambled back to the focs'le head
And turned our posts to stand.
We had no choice, for Maw's own voice
Had sworn us to Twenty Grand, me lads,
We were bound for Twenty Grand.

Now I like to think we'll get there yet,
And the day will some day come,
When we can cross the harbor bar
Beneath a warming sun.
But until we do, we're doomed to sail,
Until we fade away,
For the word of Maw has laid down law,
And we're bound for twenty K, my boys
We are bound for twenty K.

We may encounter storms again,
Or days before the Trades,
We may run out of salt hard tack,
And maybe we won't get laid.
But these are trifles, nothing yet
To make our courage fail.
For I never ever will forget,
The night Maw faced the gale, my lads,
The night Maw faced that gale.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 30 Jul 07 - 03:27 PM

Hey, I NEVER said it was GOOD poetry...







Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 30 Jul 07 - 03:08 PM

Acheiving eighteen-five-four-five
Makes me glad to be alive,
Though it's hard (as a deep thinker)
To address questions about sprinklers,
Or to create sundry fair devizes
WHile Rapaire anthropomorphicizes!

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Jul 07 - 09:50 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 25 Jul 07 - 09:46 AM

Why, Mom, are you so near the bottom?
Why mingle with riff-raff like these?
The loos they are filthy, the beer it is worse --
Do you like the pretzels and cheese?

Why, Mom, are you so near the bottom?
Could it be that nobody cares?
You could get mugged right here at the bar --
Come home with me now back upstairs.

Why, Mom, are you so near the bottom?
Amos has searched through the night!
You know that we miss you and love you --
My goodness! Your hair is a fright.

Why, Mom, are you so near the bottom?
We'll fix a good dinner at home!
There's naught but the dregs of society here --
They'd put you 'neath six feet of loam.

Come, Mom, arise to your bower,
And promise you'll never more roam.
Yes, take the beer with you, dear Mater --
Even though it's nearly all foam.

       --Carson Mayhew Wingate IV, Songs of Innocence
          (San Diego de la Verga: Prensa de Polo, 1752)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 19 Jul 07 - 11:17 PM

Does your doggerel byte, sur?


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 19 Jul 07 - 10:50 PM

For just a bit of doggerell?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Charley Noble
Date: 19 Jul 07 - 09:20 PM

Cluin-

Thou "byte" is worse than thous "bark" and should be curtailed!

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Cluin
Date: 19 Jul 07 - 11:55 AM

Subject: RE: Lyr Req: Train Song (Humoresque)
From: Cluin - PM
Date: 10 Jan 03 - 12:49 PM

Please refrain from posting lyrics,
Whether sincere or satiric,
Space upon the server's getting tight.
Room is needed for declaiming,
Pointless posturing and flaming,
We would rather bark than waste a byte.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 19 Jul 07 - 07:47 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 18 Jul 07 - 02:55 PM

Now our Mom is falling low.
Where did everybody go?
Stilly, Bunn, and Rustic, where?
Gone to ground, my friend Rapaire!
Where is Khandu, Spaw or Tweed,
All renowned for BS deeds?
Lost in storms of life's duress,
And only I come to provide
Solace at our Mother's side...
Only I, here to BS.

Walt Whittler
Leaves of Many Grasses
East Village Headpress, 1965

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 17 Jul 07 - 03:46 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 17 Jul 07 - 03:44 PM

Far past the unsheathed range of night,
Beyond the plane where mortal beings stress,
Struggling to master lesser rights
And fearing greater wrongs to e'er confess,
Beyond the realm where human turmoil reigns
And cruel force reduces all to nil,
There is a sphere, free from contriving pain,
Where all is whim, and light, and Will.

In these high ranges darkness yields to light,
And high creative spirit bans duress;
Here is the answer to the mortal night,
Immortal font of all true, pure, B.S.
None here does suffer from confusion's strains
Nor stumbles, crushed in flesh and will;
Here doth every soul their right regain,
And in creative honor shine both bright and still.

These are the powerful sources of our Mother's hand,
Which do inform her every smile and turn;
Then, stranger, follow, to a better land,
Where bright B.S. doth every honor earn,
And proud BS' torches burn, and burn.

Antony Anstyly
Where Dwells The Not
Murk and Maunder, pubs.
New London, 2001

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: GUEST,beardedbruce
Date: 08 Jul 07 - 05:45 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 07 Jul 07 - 10:45 PM

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in stress.
From what I 've tasted of desire,
I'd say by fire;
But more than stress,
My second guess
Is by BS.

Robert Hail Noe
Memories of Paths Not Known
Gullible and Smellable, Brattleboro, 1967

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 27 Jun 07 - 03:45 PM

201!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 27 Jun 07 - 03:32 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: MMario - PM
Date: 27 Jun 07 - 03:31 PM

This is the thread that never ends
it goes on and on my friends
some people started posting
not know what they'd wrought
and we continue posting
treasuring the thought
This is the thread that never ends. . .

A.D.
Finitem, Mo.
'Annoying Earworms of the Gulf Coast'
2002

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 26 Jun 07 - 06:20 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 25 Jun 07 - 11:33 PM

And some will offer art and song;
And some, wild thoughts design,
And some will offer epic prose
And bold, heroic lines.
But some will stagger in quite late,
And seek the crowds to charm,
By listing out the things they ate,
And counting up their arms.
These lists of menus will not serve,
For Mother's sights are high!;
And if you can't be William Yeats,
At least, you orter try!

W. Shatner Redux
Songs of Lassitude
IBM Technical Pubs Department
Armonk, NY, 1986

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Jun 07 - 04:08 PM

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

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 20 Jun 07 - 12:36 PM

RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 19 Jun 07 - 11:24 PM

Pull not my leg, dear lamb, nor the wool over my weakening eyes.
For we have strived as brothers, ye and I, to right
The ship of fools which carries us, and make it wise
And light it through its stormy, mindless night.
Thus have we earned good merit up in heaven!
For guiding Mother through her perilous strait.
And soon, from thousands ten-and-seven,
Will bring her unto thousands ten-and eight!
Store up good drink! Go, slay the fatted calf!
Polish thine trumpet, and have Doug bring his drum!
For we shall merrye be, and long will laugh,
When Mother is 18 thousand come!
Sharpen thine wit! Prepare thy brightest pen!
We'll post to her but ninety one times more!
And then -- oh friends, oh MOABites, oh then--
We'll usher her to eighteen-thousand's shore!

Nimrod Winnebago Willowtongue de Catastrophe
Seigneur des Droit Poétique des Royaunes Entires de M´re de Tous Merde des Taureaux

Port Royale, Endroit des Apaches, Normandy du Sud. 1948

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 17 May 07 - 01:34 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 17 May 07 - 09:47 AM

We're seventeen-five-and-ninety now,
I said to Mom today.
It's really quite miraculous
You've made this madness pay.
You've drawn them out, you've made them shout,
You've coddled the craziest loons.
And you've built a monument in this thread,
While the others jes' talked tunes.

It was Mom who kept the back door wide,
For those who needed rest
Who just wanted a place they could eat and hide,
While they dreamed up better B.S.
It was Mom who brought their fiery souls
To settle down a spell,
When Rapaire would draw his vorpal blade,
And threaten Bee Dubya Ell.

It was Mom who paid to replace the glass,
When Amos hit grand slams
And Mom who couseled Rustic lass,
To be only what she am.
It was Mom who gave out gardening tips
When Stilly got frustrated,
And yes, Mom it was who called the fuzz
And got LH incarcerated.

And through it all, in her treasured hall,
While we all were coming and going,
It was Mom who manned the parlor couch,
And kept the BS flowing.
When the world was too much on our minds,
And we couldn't raise a smile,
It was Mom who'd turn us on our heads
In her best spatulate style.

The BS has run both long and deep,
Both wise, and terse, and silly.
And though some have left, we still have the best,
Like Rapaire, and Bunn, and Stilly.
We still get talk from Little Hawk,
(Who was let out for good behavior)
And we all -- deep inside -- recognize with pride,
We are rich with that MOAB flavor.

Yes, you're seventeen-five-and-ninety now,
I said to Mom today.
There is no telling how much time
This game has left to play.
But wherever folkies congregate,
And argue 'bout keys and time,
There's an awe-struck sound, when the talk comes round
To the depth of the MOAB mind.

For the BS was long, and the BS was deep,
And it ranged full wide and far.
There was color and tone, and the length alone
Would see you past the stars!
And if some far day sees our Eighteen K,
Come rolling down the pike,
Folks out for the ride will just say with pride,
"Well, that's what Mom is like!"

Aspartane Swelling Wotsat IV.
Ballads of Good Medicine in Bad Hands
Woodby, Betirov, Dedd, pubs., Woodstock-on-Rhyffle, 1989

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 15 May 07 - 07:09 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 14 May 07 - 11:41 PM

Goodness gracious, Mom! Let me help you up with a bit of poetry:

Roses are red,
Blood is too,
Mom, I skewered
My opponents for you.

Yes, I ran them through
With a yard of steel
Spleen or brow
My sword they'd feel.

Six of them now
As cold as clay
With MOAB slashed on 'em
Instead of a Zay.

I'm sorry, dear Mom,
That I'm late by a day
But danged few wear swords
Out Idaho way.

    -- Sirano Di Bareback, Mother's Day Gems
      (Carcasson By Moonlight: Nasal Press, 1612)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 14 May 07 - 10:49 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 14 May 07 - 10:36 AM

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

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 19 Apr 07 - 03:35 PM

with apologies to T. L.


THE Mudcat Icons

We are the Mudcat Icons,
Ev'ryone of us cares.
We all hate poverty, war, and injustice,
Unlike the rest of you squares.

There are innocuous Catters,
But we regard them with scorn.
The folks who don't post have no social conscience
Why, they don't even care if Jimmy Crack Corn.

If you feel dissatisfaction,
Talk your frustrations away,
Some people may prefer action,
But give me a Mud Thread any old day.

The topic don't have to be clever,
And it don't matter if you make up all of your facts.
It sounds more PC if it ain't good English,
And its best when your victim reacts.

Remember the war against Franco?
That's the kind where each of us belongs.
Though he may have won all the battles,
We never admit when we're wrong.

So join in the Mudcat Icons,
Our words are the weapons we pack
To the fight against poverty, war, and injustice.
Ready! Aim! Yak!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: katlaughing
Date: 13 Apr 07 - 09:22 PM

Not about Mudcat, but by a Mudcatter...okay?

I Grieve

I grieve for the
   Land of my Heart
To which I have never been;
For my ancestors
   Never known;
For my dancing Self
   Who went within.

I grieve for our early home
   Its magic of empty prairie,
Its landscape of searing
   Loneliness and bright promise,
Its ferocity of Nature and
   Beauty of quietude.

I grieve for youthful passion;
Though its embers burn steadily,
Now, compassion feeds the flames.

© K. LaFrance 2006

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: GUEST
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 07:15 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:14 AM

We was sixteen nine and ninety,
When the winds began to blow,
And one by one all of MOAB's kids
Had somewhere else to go.
...

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:15 AM

By sixteen nine and ninety-two
The sky had turned to blood.
There was hail as big as softballs
Slamming into a sea of mud.


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:16 AM

At sixteen nine and ninety three,
The lightning tore through the halls,
And noone knew who'd pull as through,
Or if anyone had the balls.


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:17 AM

The sky was all afire,
And the hail broke down the door.
But someone was still posting,
We hit sixteen-nine-nine-four.



Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:18 AM

By sixteen-nine and ninety five
The wind'd begun to shriek
Rapaire'd gone after golf balls,
Thet were filling up the creek.


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:20 AM

There was no-one feeling cheerful,
Pore Still was feeling sick.
But ole Amos kept on typing on,
Through sixteen-nine-nine-six


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:22 AM

At sixteen-nine-nine seven
LH pulled out for the woods.
And Bunn, well he was lying low,
An' BL was jes' no good.


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:23 AM

As the storm tore off the roof above,
And the hour was growing late,
Ole Amos lit a stogie up,
On the sixteen-nine-nine-eight.


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:24 AM

Khandu was nowhere to be seen,
An' Tweed had jumped the line.
But ole Amos said, "Doncha worry none"
"Here's Sixteen-nine-nine-nine."


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:25 AM

Well the wind came down, and the sun came out,
There was cheer across the land.
As Amos carried Mom and all,
Past the Seventeen of Grand.

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos
Date: 10 Apr 07 - 12:28 AM

Now somewhere MOABites explain,
Why they had to yield the ghost,
An' why they could not make the push
To that seventeen-thousandth post.
But them excuses don't count for much,
They're jes' music for the birds,
Cuz' no-one ever accused Big A
Of running out of words.

Joseph Morgan Homer, Poet Laureate, Order of the Voewels
Hymns of the Great Thread
Feinbottom Puffery and Wynde
Moab, Utah, 2007

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Apr 07 - 04:13 PM

Although a very large percentage of these doggerel verses are complete shlock, Bruce, I have to say it is gratifying to see one's humble, rag-tag efforts added to a separate thread. Thanks!

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 Apr 07 - 02:12 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 06 Apr 07 - 11:38 PM

Oh, Mom, the hour is growing late, and the sun is sinking low.
And all the kids seem to be gone, with something else to do.
The day's gone by, the evenings wanes, the sun gives up its ghost.
And only I, it seems, have thought to come around and post.

What is it drives the ebb and flow of folks from day to day?
Why do sometimes they post in droves, and sometimes stay away?
When Little Hawk and Mario, and Still and Rapaire
Are just too busy doing all the things they do "out there"?

The answer is not plain to see, perhaps we'll never know.
But I cannnot stand back and watch you slowly sinking low.
So here's a toast, and here's a post, and may the night bring more!
As long as you can keep afloat, and stay up off the floor,

We'll keep on thinking something up, to keep you on your path,
ANd maybe it will make you scream, or burp, or pee, or laugh.
It doesn;t really matter if it makes you mad as hell,
As long as someone adds a slice, to ring the numbers bell.
And keep our MOAB well.

Llewellyn Termagenant Sodd
Obstreperous and Noxious When Wet
Santa Fe, 1958

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 06 Apr 07 - 03:27 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 06 Apr 07 - 03:24 PM

Mom, you know we'll see you through;
We'll do whatever we must do.
We tough, we're strong, we're all true-blue,
Except for two -- or perhaps a few.
We're sixteen-nine and fifty-two
A good sign of what MOAB can do.
And there's the weekend coming too!
So boop-bop-de-boop, de-boopity boo!

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 01:44 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 01:42 PM

Mother, we aare glad you are alive
Being now sixteen and nine-seventy-five
We see with hope and clarity (almost)
Ahead, thy seventeen-thousandth post.
Although no more of King Khandu we read,
And silent is the voice of Ancient Tweed,
And freds and trollops all are gone,
Yet we bold few will still press on.
We'll get you there -- soon, if not now.
This is our solemn BS vow.
And then we'll rest, and have with thee
Two chocolate cookies and three cups of tea.

A