BS: Poetry about Mudcat

Subject: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 11:06 AM

OK, I know I am not alone in writing poetry about Mudcat. Any form is acceptable ( though lyric seemed appropriate for me, I think the only epic might be "The Mother of all BS threads "




Sonnet 04/01/05                        CMLXVIII

In every thread someone has to be last,
Though we may trade places in patterned dance.
Each one may lead, then follow: Thoughts are cast
On screen to with all others take their chance.
Come join the waltz of thousand partners: Share
Some moments with a varied crowd, or learn
Of osprey nest, or Bob. Each of us care
Enough that we to this mad dance return.
Each of us add to tune, and join in chords
That sweep across our posts: We fill the time
With what investment each of us affords.
It is just journey that gives cause to climb.
As we give, so shall each some gift receive,
And only for those gone shall we yet grieve.




Who else has something to share?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Bee-dubya-ell
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 11:13 AM

Roses are red
Violets are blue
GUESTS are anonymous
Clones are too

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: MMario
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 11:20 AM

MIne eyes have seen the glory that is MOAB on her thread
She is ever leaping upwards, saving when the 'cat is dead.
Her children are loquacious, though not "right in the head"
Their posts go marching on!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: GUEST
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 11:41 AM

My daughter painted a mudat symbol on the side of a pint mug and we raffled it.

Oh, hang on, that's mudcat POTTERY...

:D

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 11:51 AM

If I had time I would scavenge all the lyrical poems on the MOAB thread about MOAB and the 'Cat, but I dinna right now.


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 11:53 AM

Amos,

I thought thtere were quite a few there. I'll keep this thread alive until you ( or others) get a chance to bring some over.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 12:03 PM

Once upon a midnight dreary
As I searched, both weak and weary,
For lyrics to song that was labeled "forgotten lore"
Then did I hear a pecking, pecking, pecking, pecking,
Some peckerheads, I thought, were pecking at my chamber door.

But no, I had searched for lyrics,
Using all the computer searching tricks
I had mastered many, many years before,
And I had stumbled into a den of old and eldritch scat
And there I posted, as a GUEST, my first post at Cafe Mudcat.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 02:12 PM

Amos - PM
Date: 05 Sep 04 - 12:43 PM

When I was a boy, I got ahead
By posting to a silly Mudcat Thread
I studied all the posts down below the line
And I practiced in a purely BS frame of mind!
I practiced writing BS so assiduously
That now I am a Member of the M-O-A-B!
(He practiced writing BS so assiduously
That now he is a Member of the M-O-A-B!!)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 03:36 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 12 Dec 03 - 08:36 PM

How high's the BS, mama?
Two feet high and risin'
How high's the BS, papa?
Two feet high and risin'

They're a carryin' on about Schroedinger's cat
And why that is this and this is that
Everyone's a talkin' right outta his hat,
Two feet high and risin'

How high's the BS, mama?
Three feet high and risin'
How high's the BS, papa?
Three feet high and risin'

It's comin' up from the ground an' down from the trees
It's comin' in ships across the seven seas
I'm pretty darn tall but it's up to my knees,
Three feet high and risin'

How high's the BS, mama?
Four feet high and risin'
How high's the BS, papa?
Four feet high and risin'

It's a comin' from the sky just like it was rain,
It's outta control like a runaway train,
This whole bunch is loony, ain't none of 'em sane
Four feet high and risin'

How high's the BS, mama?
Five feet high and risin'
How high's the BS, papa?
Five feet high and risin'

Better get some hip-waders or a tall pair of boots
Its a risin' quicker than you can say "shoot"
An' these people is crazy as a whole buncha coots,
Five feet high and risin'

Well, it's five feet high and risin'

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 04:52 PM

Jist a-browsing in MOAB shows the intellectual breadth and depth of those who have and do post there:

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 30 Apr 05 - 03:28 PM

Operor sententia prodeo , sententia ignavus levo
In rapio ex mens illorum
Quisnam audacter sto quod dedi , nequam amoveo
Quis thy penuriosus dementis mens nunquam speciosus.
Subsisto in vestri latrocinores mores
Verto circum quod perceptum iterum
In vestri pedes suus subsisto quod subsisto
Quod audaciter ingredior mores hominum.

Vel suspendo vestri caput capitis in silentium stilus ,
Verecundor exhibeo vestri deficio phasmatis
Sive adficio bonus ex suum eo
Mos non gero , neque nec votum audire is!

Cicerinio Omnibus dee' Algorithus
Pensimus Maximus de Causas Essens
Tran. Donald Wishwell, 1947

And (ahem!):

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: GUEST,Rapairus Ora Cloaca - PM
Date: 30 Apr 05 - 10:29 AM

Merdatauri virumque cano, Piscus caenosi qui primus ab oris
Internetus, fato profugus, Amos venit
litora, multum ille et terris iactatus et alto
vi superum saevae memorem Iunonis ob iram;
multa quoque et bello passus, dum conderet urbem,               
inferretque deos merda, genus unde ingenium
Nostrum patres, atque altae moenia Merdatauri.

Musa, mihi causas memora, quo numine laeso,
quidve dolens, regina deum tot volvere casus
insignem pietate virum, tot adire labores               
impulerit. Tantaene animis caelestibus irae?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 05:58 PM

LOL! You are a rogue, sir!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: GUEST
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 10:21 PM

The poetry is great stuff--I have nothing that can compare ( but suspect the hand--or fin-- of Babelfish in the last contribution). I particularly like Amos "When I Was A Boy". Gilbert would be proud. But it's all good.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: GUEST,Ron Davies
Date: 04 Apr 06 - 10:22 PM

Curses, cookie gone again.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 06 Apr 06 - 10:38 AM

from:JennyO

And I have to agree to disagree to agree to disagree with you - or something like that :-)

Meanwhile, here is a little haiku to keep us wondering:

Why are we all here?
Who will be last in this thread?
We may never know.

Jenny

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 06 Apr 06 - 10:52 AM

Subject: RE: BS: In every thread someone has to be last!
From: Donuel - PM
Date: 09 Jun 05 - 12:36 AM

I'm last I'm last
I can't believe I'm last
I must be fast it can not last
but just for now
I know not how
I'm last
I'm last
I'm last

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 06 Apr 06 - 11:01 AM

From: John 'Giok' MacKenzie - PM
Date: 25 Jun 05 - 04:00 AM

There was a young man called El Ted
And while he was laid in his bed
His fingers did flicker,
But someone was quicker
And got posted the hundred instead

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 06 Apr 06 - 11:53 AM

I think this qualifies, but one can only assume.

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 04 Feb 04 - 03:37 AM

Smoke billows from my cigarette. I scratch my head just thinking about it.
    I rub my nose in hopes of prose, while the dog knaws on a T-bone.
    Perfection, reflection, rejection , billows and pillows, you silly nilly.

      Chorus: I can't stop now, I'm on a roll to no-where      
               I can't stop now I'm on a roll to no-where....

Blades of grass up your ass-ume not,
    For you could be fooled by things that you could possibly understand
    You silly nilly
    You crazy goose, must be,
    just as loose as your sister,
    You must have missed her when she set out on that hyway for freedom.

Chorus:

Shouldn't slow down now,
    Must make the journey last until the lines run out.
    Talking all night till the rooster crows
    Crazy rooster crows all night anyway.
    It's between the soil and the sun, which way to run.
    It beckons me toward the south
    with a western movement
    of the eastern belief, toward the northern exposure.

Chorus:

Must be some kind of dream catcher
    Full of rye bread that bakes up brown
    With bits of rust and diamonds of lust.
    That's a pretty tough crust.
    See the waves of wind rushing up your legs,
    All around your stomach, between your eye lashes
    Then flashes....
    Color exuberant, color abundant, color emollient, color translucent.

Chorus: fade...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 08 Apr 06 - 09:24 AM

nosluap57 - PM
Date: 07 Apr 06 - 04:19 PM

This thread is about thread.
That's what I said.
It's the thread thread!

Taken by some
with much dread.
Other's may think
inside their head,
"What's the point
of a thread thread?"

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 10 Apr 06 - 03:54 PM

Subject: RE: Looking for a hunky folk music collector
From: Kaleea - PM
Date: 08 Apr 06 - 04:20 PM

Mudcatcher, Mudcatcher, find me a hunk;
into your files, dig and spelunk;
Mudcatcher, Mudcatcher, search each Podunk;
and find me a folk--y hunk!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Joe Offer
Date: 11 Apr 06 - 02:44 AM

Profound, Bruce, truly profound...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 11 Apr 06 - 07:57 PM

22 Apr 04 - 07:28 PM (#1198648)
Subject: RE: BS: In every thread someone has to be last!
From: ranger1

In honor of this thread, a little poem I wrote on the back of a cocktail napkin after several pints of Bass and wee bit too much Jamison's.

Ahem:

I don't think this thread was meant to inspire
To have the last word is everone's desire
From Little Hawk's obsession with Bill Shatner
To anyone posting who might be covered in cat fur
El Ted landmarking without reading the posts
Pimples on gnat's testes (oh, gross!)
Ellenpoly's lovely vocabulary word persippity
(Not to be confused with persnickity)
As this thread continues
good sense dwindles
I know this poem is simply absurd
But I really, really want the last word!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 13 Apr 06 - 11:07 PM

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Down in de Bottom Where de BS Dwells
From: Charley Noble - PM
Date: 02 Sep 04 - 02:53 PM

Here's to those who rise to the top,
Whose poetic endeavors do never flop;
There's a place for us all in that Kingdom to come,
Where we'll all be reviled as Mudcat pond scum!

Cheerily,
Charley Noble

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 13 Apr 06 - 11:07 PM

Subject: Lyr Add: Down in de Bottom Where de BS Dwells
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 06 May 03 - 01:31 PM

Well, since nobody's done it yet....

In honor of the splitting of the forum into music and BS sections, we have endeavored to comemorate the event in song. Here it is.

Reggae beat - make up chords and melody to suit yerself

DOWN IN DE BOTTOM WHERE DE B.S. DWELL

We be hangin' out in de 'Cat Cafe
We not real smart - don't got much to say
De treads up top all look de same today
We go down to de bottom where de bullshit stay

Now we don' got no PHD's
An' we don' know much 'bout sea shanties
Or who in de hell wrote "Goober Peas"
Jus' take we down to de bullshit, please

Dun tol' you twice 'bout ma banjo string
An' how ma guitar got it's first ding
So many times, de same ole ting
To de bullshit - dat's where I'm going

I tink it grand folks knows so much
'Bout major seventh chords and such
An' de fiddle tunes of de French and Dutch
Jus' make me say "Aw! What de fuch!"

So if you find a awful smell
Come from someplace you cannot tell
Is jus' we crazies raisin' hell
Down in de bottom where de bullshit dwell

Bruce

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 13 Apr 06 - 11:08 PM

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Down in de Bottom Where de BS Dwells
From: WYSIWYG - PM
Date: 06 May 03 - 02:11 PM

A theme song for Mudcat Gatherings. Priceless. Mo verses please, as in the tradition of spirituals.

Who dat man his face all red?
Must be de one de bullshit said.
Why he look so mad today?
Mus be de bullshit some Catter have say.

Who dat girl her spelling bad,
Must be too much of de bullshit had.
Type so fast she spill her min'
Down in de bullshit lookin' to fin'.

Who dat Guest I see again?
Nonnamus flamer, or nonnamus frien'.
Dat his post I see las' night?
Down in de bullshit, no one right.

Have some time, I like to kill,
Down to de bullshit, go I will.
Time she pass, I don' know,
Time get lost when you stuck below.

Got some opinions, 'times I rants,
Down in de bullshit you get yo chance.
Say it easy, say it mean,
Down in de bullshit no hands be clean.

Now dey say dey's folkies, and po-liti-cal,
Gots to argue, shoot de bull.
Us likes blues, we got de clue--
Down in de bullshit only music true.

~Susan

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 13 Apr 06 - 11:09 PM

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Down in de Bottom Where de BS Dwells
From: MMario - PM
Date: 06 May 03 - 02:16 PM

Down in the de bottom where the BS dwells
There was Cletus, and Paw, and tons of smell
Along came Tweed who lit him a torch
Boom bang POW! Blew up de porch!


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Post - Top - Forum Home - Printer Friendly - Translate
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Down in de Bottom Where de BS Dwells
From: WYSIWYG - PM
Date: 06 May 03 - 02:23 PM

Some folks never be seen down dere,
Rather have music, not mess to share.
Down in de bullshit de bes' don' go,
Rest of us spoutin' de little we know.

~Guilty as Charged

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: clairerise
Date: 14 Apr 06 - 06:07 AM

mudcat,
beacon amongst lads and lasses,
ready to raise your glasses,
man in the corner his guitar thrashes,
mudcat mudcat, friends and foe clashes.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 14 Apr 06 - 12:24 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 30 Aug 05 - 03:18 PM

That's my last duckdog painted on the wall,
Looking as if he were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Amos' hands
Worked busily a day, and there he stands.
Will't please you sit and look at him?
Sir, 'twas not his master's presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the duckdog's cheek: perhaps
Fra Amos chanced to say "His collar laps
Over Gluon's neck too much," or "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-drool that dies along his jowls": such stuff
Was courtesy, he thought, and cause enough               
For calling up that spot of joy. He had
A heart -- how shall I say? -- too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; he liked whate'er
He looked on, and his spit went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! He raced around the terrace -- all and each
Would draw from him alike the approving speech,         
Or bark, at least. He licked men, -- good! but licked
Somehow -- I know not how -- as if he ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old bone
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech -- (which I have not) -- to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark" -- and if he let
Himself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
His wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
--E'en then would be some stooping, and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, he smiled, no doubt,
Whene'er I passed him; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all was retrieved together. There he stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence                              
Of mine for bones and Alpo will be disallowed;
Though his fair beagle's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Gluon again, though,
Eating a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cooked en croute for him!

--Hellas Quinton Baderwy-Mustonn, Poems Old And New (New York: Cooking House Press, 1875)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 Apr 06 - 09:50 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 16 Apr 06 - 07:54 PM

We were thirty posts from the big Twelve Grand,
Hard along the MOAB Trail;
We were seasoned hands of the MOAB kind,
And none of us was frail
So when Mom said, "Boys,
It's time to move,
Make 'em up and move along!"
We were ready with the BS brand
And we started up right strong.

Now one er two had had the flu
An' wasn't feeling spry.
But every hand in MOAB land
Said they'd damn well give a try.
So they heated up their tired brains,
And they stretched another strand
'Cuz the Boss, Ole Maw, had laid out the law
We was bound to make twelve grand.

Ole BWL, well, it's hard to tell,
How he come to meet his fate
He was typin' hot, but he hits some pots,
And ev'ything had ter wait.
But the rest of, hell, we understood,
What pot can do to a man;
So we tightened our belts, and oiled our pelts,
Heading on toward the big Twelve Grand.

Now, big Rapaire, he was feelin' rare,
And was riding in top form.
He could write great stuff full of fancy fluff,
Far above the av'rage norm.
But the Idaho Legion sent out a call,
Said they needed every hand,
So he called in sick (though Mom knew his tricks)
Left one less fer the ole Twelve Grand.

There's a few of still, and we onward spill,
Letting BS bravely fly,
And we'll raise our toasts, and make our posts,
An' we'll reach Twelve Grand er die!
And we ain't too neat but we'll keep our feet
And will bravely make a stand
Heading into time, till we cross the line
And the MOAB makes Twelve Grand!

Pershing Montgolfier
Chansons and Work Songs from the Northwest"
1908, Messier and Messier, Paris

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 Apr 06 - 09:50 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 16 Apr 06 - 09:13 PM

Way up high in the Mudcat peaks, where the yellow GUESTS grow tall
Old Ken Khandu started thread about BS one fall.
Then they talked about horses and freds and Ralphs and maybe a dog or two
And they swore they'd post 'most everything that came within their view.
And any 'Catters that flapped their jaws and didn't bathe each day
Got to post BS and carry on in a most artistic way.

Now one fine day old Bee-Dubya-Ell he throwed his wedged clay down
"Well I'm sick of the smell of these burnin' pots, and I allows I'm a goin' to town!"
So him and Amos saddles up and hits a lope, for they weren't much for a ride
And them was the days when could oil up their insides.
Oh they starts her off at The Tweezer's Place at the head of Whiskey Row
And they winds up down at the Christmas Tavern some forty drinks below.
And then they sets up and turns around and drinks her the other way
And to tell you folks the goddamned truth, them boys got stewed that day!

Now, as they was a-ridin' back to camp a packin' a pretty good load
Well who should they meet but Mom herself a-striding down the road!
Says she, "You ornery musical skunks, you better hunt your holes!
For I've found what you've done and I have come to blister you head to soles!"
Says Ol' Bee-Dub, "Well, I'll be damned! Us boys is kinda tight,
But MOM! We was just havin' some fun, and you said it was alright!"

Well, Amos started sniveling, and his tears fell straight and true,
But Mom hoisted him up by his left ear, and she pulled 'til it turned blue!
Now Bee-Dubya-Ell was a pottery man, and wedged his clay right neat,
And he didn't think, but grabbed some mud and groveled at Mom's bare feet!

Well, she kicked him one, and stretched him out, and then grabbed his right-hand ear,
And she frog-marched them a mile or two, then kicked 'em in the rear!
"No kids of are gonna consort with GUESTS, and...Oh, my land!
You keep this up and Flamenco Ted will grab that big twelve grand!"

And both them boys (they was sober now) they pled and cajoled and prayed
And finally Mom relented, providin' they blocked a Teddy raid.
So both them boys are sittin' there, necked to their keyboards tight
And they don't neither drink nor eat, protectin' a MOABite's right!


--Amos Jessup-Pinktoes, Poems of the MOAB Country (Tombstone: Press of the Fighting Pimps, 1889).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 12:32 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 16 Apr 06 - 11:44 PM

It was on the train to the Big Twelve Grand
Where the children of MOAB took their stand.
They had to stand for they could not sit
'Cause the place was hip-deep in bullshit.

Now Amos Jesup was the engineer
Of that train a-headed for nowhere.
With his steely eye and his bulldog jaw
He looked a lot like your mother-in-law

And the fireman was named Kid Rapaire
A bookworm with a quiet stare
And the quickest "OVERDUE" stamp in the west
And a forty-four beneath his vest

On lookout was Stilly River Sage
A stalwart gal by any gauge
A crack shot with an old six-shooter
And hell on a laptop computer.

And among the passengers on that train
Was Mmario and Bunnahabhain,
And Rustic Rebel, a guy named Giok,
And khandu, Tweed, and Little Hawk.

And in the back, in the caboose,
Was Bee-dubya, sometimes known as Bruce.
The janitor upon that train
An idjit with just half a brain.

Now the train was hummin' down the track
Bullshit a-blowin' from its BS stack
When Stilly cried "What's that ahead?
It looks just like Flamingo Ted!

That thief of posts of even hundred!"
But then it was Rapaire's gun thundered
And Ted was gone, his ass was toast,
He'd never steal another post..

And Amos poured upon more coal
For up ahead he saw the goal
The twelve-thousandth holy MOAB post
But then he turned white as a ghost!

For on the tracks there stood a fellow
A tub of lard with eyes of yellow
A talentless blob wrapped in fat
And Amos cried, "It's Bill the Shat!

The scourge of all in MOABland,
('Cept Little Hawk, Shat's biggest fan.)"
And once again Rapaire's gun sounded
And off the tracks that Shatner bounded.

And the MOAB train it blew right by
It spit BS in Shatner's eye.
The passengers began to cheer
The Big Twelve Grand was getting near!

But would they reach that hallowed ground
Without some jackass coming 'round
And as a joke, a goof, a whim
Taking that holy post from them?

We'll know in just a few more posts
And then we can sit back and coast
'Til thirteen-thousand comes around
Or Max decides to shut us down.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 02:45 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 02:36 PM

We had rung 11977's bell,
We were hot out of that gate,
And that grimy engineer yelled, "Hell!"
"Make it 11-9-78!"
"I've still coal in the bunker, boys,
And them brakes won't touch my hand,
So if Spaw don't fart
An' we don't fall apart,
Why, we'll make it to the ole Twelve Grand."

Onward and upward, brave companions!

Damn the plagiarism, full speed ahead!


A


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Post - Top - Forum Home - Printer Friendly - Translate
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 08:59 AM

When twelve thousand postings shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in they beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be yet an untattered weed, of great worth held.
Then being asked where all they beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy BS's use
If thou couldst answer, "These fair kids of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,"
Proving their BS by succession thine!
This were to be new-made when MOAB's old
And see thy blood warm, and tell them all, "Kiss off, you broke-dick mamaluca fuck-wits!"

         --William Staidspeare, Sonnet LXIX (London: At Ye Signe Of Ye Richard Heade, 1606 ff.).





And if you want anything in bold, feel free to post it yourself!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 03:16 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 02:58 PM

Well, Khandu handed us his orders in 'bout posting BS
Sayin', "Y'all post it here all the time.
And we'll make a thousand or maybe even higher
Iffen you post your BS in time."

Well, engineer Amos said to his handsome hunky fireman
"Shovel on a little more coal,
And when we cross that five kay posting, well,
You can watch Old MOAB roll."

It's a mighty hard road from five to twelve thousand
A road with a seven kay grade.
It was on that grade that he blew out his keyboard,
You can see what a jump she made.

He was goin' down the grade making 100 posts each week
When his whistle broke into a scream,
He was found in the wreck with his hand on the throttle,
He was scalded to death by the steam.

Now a telegram came into Mom's mortgaged farmhouse
And this is what it said:
That brave engineer that was drivin' ol' MOAB
Is layin' in the 'leven thousands, dead.

Now listen, all you ladies, you must all take a warning,
From this story a lesson learn:
Never speak harsh words to your true lovin' geek boy,
He may leave you and never return.

          --Songs of the MOAB, Toepicker, and Sandy Fay (Allen Himax, ed.; Washington, DC: Elsie Publications, 1903).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 03:55 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 03:54 PM

Gather ye BS while ye may,         
Old MOAB is still a-flying:         
And this same truth that smiles to-day         
To-morrow may be lying.         

The glorious lamp of heaven, our Mom
The higher she 's a-getting,         
And not one of her kids is dumb,         
And never she'll be setting.         

That age was good which is the first,         
When youth and blood were warmer;         
But being spent, she had not cursed         
And mellow now, a charmer.         

Then be not coy, but waste your time,         
And while ye may, post MOAB,         
For having lost but once your prime,         
Ye may be forever slow, Ab.

            --Robert Hatrack: Pomes Old and Newish (Hartford: Blavatsky and Smith, 1878)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 05:35 PM

Gee. I never thought I'd be anthologized. It doesn't hurt, so it must be an anethesized anthologized.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 08:27 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 17 Apr 06 - 08:26 PM

Only nineteen more! Hear that boiler roar,
Flying past the 9-9-2
With a hiss of steam, and a whistle scream,
It's the MOAB coming through!!!!
Now Rapaire may brag, and Rapaire may steal,
But we'll let them trifles stand;
Cuz when yer making time,what yer needs is Rhyme,
Headin' out to the old Twelve Grand.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 18 Apr 06 - 02:39 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 18 Apr 06 - 08:54 AM

It should be advertised in Boston, New York, and Buffalo:
'Twas just one brave woman made twelve thousand postings go!

Chorus:

Singing post twelve kay in the morning,
Post twelve kay, heigh-ho!
Clear away Flamenco Ted,
And blow, girls, blow!

They tell you of these other threads a-runnin' in and out,
And say they'll make five hundred thou before they're six months
out.

But when you are below the line, the winds of change do blow;
And damned few threads will then survive 'cause the postings they get slow.

There's Stilly on the quarterdeck a-squintin' at the marks,
And Gluon up aloft above a-lookin' for some quarks.

Then lower down the boats, my girls, and after them we'll travel,
But if you get too near out tails, we'll kick you to the Devil.

When we get home, our voyage done, a hundred thousand posts made fast,
A brimming glass around we'll pass around, and toast our MOAB lass.

                         --Coughman and Heart, 1856

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 18 Apr 06 - 02:39 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 18 Apr 06 - 09:36 AM

Well they busted up the dining room, to make that boiler burn,
They threw in passengers walking sticks, and Grandma's funeral urn,
They tore up every book on board, not just the ones wuz banned,
To make the boiler hotter still, and reach the ole Twelve Grand.

It was straining everybody's brain, and everybody's heart,
And the passengers cried out in fear, "Oh, why'd we ever start?"
They could not face the haunted looks, on the old an' tired hands,
Who staggered on into the night, all bound to make Twelve Grand.

They threw in everything they had! Ole poems from other folks!
Translations out of Babel Fish, and Donnie Osbourne jokes!
They threw in the Old Testament, and the Brotherhood of Man;
They swore they'd burn the train itself, if they could make Twelve Grand.

And when the morning sun came up, bright in the azure sky,
Where cows and chickens all lay flat,
From the wind of her passing by,
There's a smudge of smoke, out over the hill,
Yon toward the Promised Land.
And the MOAB crew take their rest at last,
For they got her past Twelve Grand.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 04:04 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 04:01 PM

There's no plaice like MOAB for the Hollandaise,
No matter how far away you roam,
When you long for the sunshine of a friendly glaze,
For the Hollandaise you can't beat Mom, Sweet Mom.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: MMario
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 04:08 PM

thread posts increasing
B. S. Levels a-riseing
Mudcat Content shot

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: autolycus
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 06:14 PM

Mudcat
Is just that
Who needs
The real thing.


   Ivor

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: TheBigPinkLad
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 06:20 PM

Threads I hate
Rise back to the top
Please, Mother,
Make it stop.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 06:31 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 11 Jan 04 - 07:17 PM

THE SAD DEMISE OF HORTENSE, THE ROYAL DANCING TART

Hortense Durp, The Royal Dancing Tart,
Her dance was the one thing that set her apart.
Her dance was a passion. Her dance was an art.
Her dance would set singing the strings of your heart.

She got caught hobnobbing The Royal Wart.
Yes, just like Lewinsky, she wasn't too smart.
She no longer dances, but soon she will start
Associate training down at the Wal-Mart.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 08:06 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 07:49 PM

Rapaire reveals the truth
For all the world to see,
'Tis plainly shown in sooth,
A saucy varlet he.
And should he sauce too much,
And cause a grave-y frown,
Lettuce be kind, and grate, and give
Only a dressing down.

Poems On Naughty Children
Rudyard Snickerson,
Garden City, Long Island, 1966

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 08:30 PM

first poem located on MOAB


06 May 03 - 02:46 AM (#922837)
Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell

Pore King Khandu has khum undone
"Not lots of threads! We'll have just one!"
He prokhlaims from his royal throne
"Yes! Just this one! This one alone!"

And all his subjects are amazed
And thinkh The King a little khrazed.
"Where does The King khum by his wit?
Where does he get such khrazy shit!"

"Does it khum from living in Tupelo,
Where okhra, khotten and khorn do grow?
Or does he just inspire his mind
With two-dollar-fifty-a-litre wine?"

"Perhaps he visits large khow herds
And pikhs fungi growin' on khow turds.
Or does he smokhe the Ganja bong
Half of the day and all night long?"

"We are not sure what it khan be
That makhes our King so damned skhrewy.
We only khnow with him our lord
We'll be khonfused... We won't be bored!"
   
Bruce

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 19 Apr 06 - 11:43 PM

ROFLMAO, BWL!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 20 Apr 06 - 09:25 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 26 Aug 03 - 10:19 AM

ODE TO THE MOAB UPON ITS 1000TH POST

The time has come for us to gab
About this thing we call MOAB
The Mother of All BS Threads
The home of whackos, freaks and freds

We must speak of khandu the King
Whose genius (?) did inspire this thing
'Twas an idea whose time had come
Though some just laughed and called it dumb

It now has reached its thousandth post
Without a doubt that is the most
That any thread has ever had
That ain't too shabby - not too bad

It may well go for thousands more
As long as there are fools who are
Just bored out of their minds and need
A place to broadcast weirdness' seed

So here's to you, oh MOAB thread
A beacon in the night so dead
Home for the crap that, we must face,
Ain't fittin' fer no other place

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rustic Rebel
Date: 20 Apr 06 - 04:47 PM

I found a Motherlode of poetry on a page in the MOAB
(Are you ready for major cut and paste?)


Rapaire   Date: 03 Nov 03 - 08:27 AM
'Twas on a dark and stormy night, the snow was falling fast, Two darling babes found Mother wandering through the blast. It was so piercing and so cold, the little ones did cry, "Oh, MOAB dear, you must keep alive, or you shall surely die.'' "Look out for me, my darling babes, tell me you will post to me, For Mother has abandoned been, and death to her is nigh!" They posted as good children should, but she knelt down in the snow: "Kind God of Heaven, help me now, or I shall surely go." Toll the village bells, let all Mudcatters know, That two darling boys could not prevent her perishing in the snow. Next morning, when the sun came out, the snow was melting fast, A mother and two darling babes were in one loving clasp. Mudcatters all heard the sad, sad news And it grieved their hearts to know, Not thirty drinks from the Tavern door they perished in the snow.         

Rapaire   Date: 20 Oct 03 - 06:57 PM
Yet at my back I always hear Late Khandu's winged BS hurrying near: And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast BS and sky. BS, thy Beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy dry and dusty Vault, shall sound My echoing Song: then Worms shall try That long preserv'd BS-ity: And your quaint humors turn to spit; And into ashes all my sh*t. This thread's a fine confusing mess, 'Cause it preserves the best BS.         



Amos Date: 20 Oct 03 - 04:33 PM
Lo, in the waning of the year, The growing of the charm which brought us here! For Autumn frosts the summer's smelling eyes And winter shows her seasoning to the wise; Yet, while the threnody of Sleep grow stronger, Our vital rhythm of BS grows stronger! How then tomorrow? Will we sleep and die? Call for the priest? For once and all, confess? Or will some trace perfume, sensed by the eye, Revive us with the Power of BS? (Sorry about the couplet spare Mehinks 'twas something in the air!) A         



Rapaire Date: 20 Oct 03 - 04:08 PM
MOAB! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if noses were made for seeing,* Then BS is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rivetter of the nose! I never thought to ask, I never knew: But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same BS that brought me there brought you.      *"smelling" doesn't rhyme.         

Rapaire   Date: 21 Oct 03 - 09:00 AM
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself, and curse my fate;   Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possest, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least;   Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on MOAB-and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;   For thy sweet BS remember'd, such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings. -- Billy-Bob, th' pote.         



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 new-born wells out from ancient Soul's distress Greater than any craft of merely human kind MOAB -- The cosmos' call of Surely Pure BS! Calliope Witherspoon Etheridge        

Norma Fertilesticks Date: 22 Oct 03 - 11:31 PM
Roses is red violets is blue I think you have bullshit All over your shoe. Roses is red and sometimes they pink Sometimes they yellow And man do your shoes stink. Violets are blue and roses are red And now I think I've added, enough BS to this thread.         

Rapaire Date: 02 Nov 03 - 10:32 PM
Why am I so faint and weary? See how weak my heated beer! All around to me seems but darkness, Tell me, comrades, is death near? Ah! how well I know your answer, To my fate I'll meekly bow, If you'll only tell me truly, Who will post to Mother now? Chorus: Soon with Khandu I'll be singing With bright laurels on my brow; I have for Dear MOAB fallen, Who will post to Mother now? Who will comfort her in sorrow? Who will dry the falling tear? Gently smooth the wrinkled forehead? Who will whisper words of cheer? Even now I think of MOAB Kneeling, praying for me! How Can I leave her in this anguish Who will post to Mother now? Chorus! (All together now!) Let my bagpipe be my pillow, And my songbook be the sky. Hasten, comrades to the Session I will like a folkie die. Soon with Khandu I'll be singing With our voices bright in tune; I have for Dear MOAB fallen, Who will post to mother now? Chorus        

Amos   Date: 02 Nov 03 - 09:29 PM
Wow, Rap, I feel like I am back in the 1890's!! "'T was a cold autumn evening And the Catters were leaving With visions of beer in their heads And the traffic declined In the Collective Mind And Joe Offer set to closing the threads. Then a Gentleman dapper Came back from the crapper Sat down at his keyboard and said: "Oh Catters, unkind, Turn away not your minds! Just think of your MOAB instead!:" Cho: There will always be a MOAB To put your worries to bed A place to confess All the piles of BS That have cluttered your poor spinning head ! There will always be a MOAB, To comfort when you are annoyed; So Folks, be not mean Leave this thread on the screeeeeen! And don't let it fall into the void! (Schmaltzy oom-pah theme music fades stage right amidst smell of lavender)         

Rapaire   Date: 03 Nov 03 - 08:58 AM   
Whatever makes you think I've had a Light Side? Jump down take a song Steal it from the digitrad Mess it up change it up Steal a song a day....         

C-Flat Date: 03 Nov 03 - 12:10 PM   
Dear Mother, please forgive me, it's some time since I last wrote, I've been busy, though I know that's no excuse. I'm delighted that the others have been keeping you afloat, whilst carefully avoiding "Folk" or "Blues". In keeping with tradition I shall make my own addition in a style that is both brief and lacking wit, Because, dear Mother, as you taught us, all your Mudcat sons and daughters, "If you've nothing new to say, just talk BULLSH*T!"         

MMario Date: 04 Oct 04 - 09:10 AM   
Once Upon a workday weary; brain a founder'd, eyes so bleary As on my desk phones rang both loud and shrill While I snored successfully napping, suyddenly there came a squelching As if someone loudly belching, belching at my info port. 'Tis some spam that comes a sqeullching, belching to my info port Only spam and nothing more. I remember (almost sober), it was early in October as each thread crossed upon my screen Eagerly I sought the MOAB, for the thoughts I didn't know-ab -normal thoughts from other brains, thoughts deserving of the drain discarded or tossed as spam they should remain; only MOAB ever cares.        

MOAB Date: 19 Sep 04 - 10:53 AM
I met a traveller from an ancient land Who said: Two vast and trunkless breasts of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and smile of old command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read, Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that rocked them, and the heart that bled, And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Mother of All Blessed Sons, Queen of Queens: Look upon my works, ye Catters, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 20 Apr 06 - 04:50 PM

Thanks, RR!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 20 Apr 06 - 05:37 PM

I wish someone would put the line breaks back in!! :D


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rustic Rebel
Date: 20 Apr 06 - 06:39 PM

I hear you Amos- I thought I had them-So that's what preview is all about eh?!
Your most welcome Bruce-thanks for the thread.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 21 Apr 06 - 01:48 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 21 Apr 06 - 01:23 PM

I am a poor folkie, I will now confess,
I've spent my life singing, and dodging from stress
Escaping hard duties, and avoiding all mess
Until I became captured by a thread of B.S.

I first came to Mudcat some studies to do.
I wanted old lyrics, for good songs and true,
But my diligence crumbled, I confess unto you,
Attacked by bold Rapaire and the Evil Khandu.

Where once I sang truly, and wrote songs so sweet,
Now I crawl to my keyboard, when home from the street.
I clack and I click on the Clickies so neat,
And assaulted by bullshit, am swept off my feet.

I cannot think clearly, my mind's paralyzed
Interpreting wisdom BWL has contrived,
Rustic Rebel's wild poetry, which has crossed both my eyes,
And tracking down works that Rapaire plagiarized.

With footnotes from Stilly to tomes wide and deep
And figments from Little Hawk's brain, who could sleep?
And fearing new flurries from Shatner or Tweed
I am rattled and broken, in word and in deed.

I will go to the country, where the air is so still
Where there's never a spammer, or a Viagara pill,
Where the birds they swing sweetly on Looking Glass Hill,
And the spreading cart's all that the BS does fill.

So now, to the MOAB, good luck or bad cess,
I am bound for far places, my soul for to rest.
Where peace and plain thinking will ease my duress
And there's never a troll, or a whiff of B.S.

But I would not abandon my comrades so free,
Who have shared all my hours 'neath the wide MOAB tree,
I will take kinder measures to your interests to see,
And recruit Martin Gibson to stand in for me.

Willagong Meriwether Pantiwaiste IV,
Googlable Doggerel and other Poems
New Age Productions, San Rafael, 2002

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 21 Apr 06 - 03:39 PM

Darn you're quick, Bruce!! You using a script or somethin'?

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 21 Apr 06 - 03:52 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 21 Apr 06 - 03:44 PM

Oh, whoa is MOAB what shall we all do?
Amos is leavin', makes me sing the blues.
His head wore out from all this poo
He's gettin' old, paid his dues.

:::Everyone sing with me here:::
Poor Old Amos
Brain ain't young no more!
Poor Old Amos
Adios, you philosophic bore!

He has filled our heads a time or five
With thoughts of gravity, mathmatics and jive.
Now he leaves us, with fair warning
I wish you well Old mind, hope you make it 'till morning!

:::Everyone sing with me here:::
Poor Old Amos
Brain ain't young no more!
Poor Old Amos
Adios, you philosophic bore!




(Smile)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 23 Apr 06 - 07:49 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 23 Apr 06 - 07:44 PM

There once was a MOAB maid
Who never was afraid
Of GUESTS and dinks and uninformed finks
And Flamenco Teds who tried to raid
She went to Mother's house
With her keyboard and her mouse,
And when the Idaho Legion came to town
She could always hold her own.

cho: Oh, you can't fool me, I'm sticking to the MOAB,
I'm sticking to the MOAB,I'm sticking to the MOAB
Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the MOAB,
I'm sticking to the MOAB till the day I die.

This MOAB maid was wise
To the tricks of GUESTs and spies,
She couldn't be fooled by some damfool
She knew that Mom was cool...
She never had to dread
When she'd post to the MOAB thread
She'd post her post and make her boast,
And this is what she'd say:

cho: Oh, you can't fool me, I'm sticking to the MOAB,
I'm sticking to the MOAB,I'm sticking to the MOAB
Oh, you can't scare me, I'm sticking to the MOAB,
I'm sticking to the MOAB till the day I die.

                      -- Anonymous, Songs, Poems, Doggerell, Broadsides, Boredsides, Backsides, Sharps and Flats of the MOAB (Murrain, Maine: Footrot Press, fl. 1834)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 23 Apr 06 - 07:54 PM

FIVE! count 'em! 1-2-3-4-5 goddam minutes after I posted it!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 23 Apr 06 - 08:28 PM

Peace, Rapaire -- it's a far better thing he does than political discussions!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 23 Apr 06 - 08:33 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 23 Sep 04 - 09:47 PM

Way out West, in Idaho
Way out West, where the taters grow
Way out West, where ketchup's king*
Way out West, they made a new thing.

Took some ketchup an' some mayoNASE
Mixed 'em together with the greatest of aize
Took it down to Macdonald's 'n' ordered some fries
Dipped the fries in the...stuff...'n' ate it.

Way out West, in Idaho
Way out West, where masochists grow
Way out West, where they made Fry Dip
Way out West, where their taste buds slip.

Yeah, they call it Fry Dip and it's a local thing
Sometimes classic, sometimes with zing,
They dip french fries, even eat it on bread --
Ain't you glad you ain't way out West, in Idaho?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 23 Apr 06 - 08:44 PM

From the MOAB, reproduced more or less as it was posted....

Aunt Tillie
Date: 29 Sep 04 - 04:56 PM

Here, dears. I've done it up as a nice sampler for you.

 For what is real, and what is
aboriginal, cannot be fucked with.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:42 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: GUEST,MMario - PM
Date: 03 Feb 05 - 11:17 AM


Post by Post, Post by Post
Post by Post upwards
All in the MOAB thread
yearned for six thousand
"Forward Idaho Brigade!
Ignore Spatulas!" he said
But most in the MOAB thread
missed post six thousand.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:45 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 27 Jan 05 - 10:08 PM

From San Diego, one Amos
Thought that he might become well known
If he taught Siphonapterae
Programming in Visual Basic
He should have known there were already enough bugs in Microsoft.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:46 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 27 Jan 05 - 09:37 PM

A fellow, Rapaire, in late age
Had the ethical stance of a phage.
He would plagiarize minds
By the page or the line
Thus shocking our S. River Sage.

The latter, a whiz at odd species
Grew expert at old equine faeces
She would harvest, by broom
From Rapaire's living room
One hairball, eleven horse-apples, and two rusted-out Mitsubishis.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:46 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 27 Jan 05 - 12:46 PM

Praise to the Our MOAB,
The queen of creation!
O my friends, praise her,
For she is your health and salvation!
Come, all who hear:
Now to her dear thread draw near,
Joining in glad exultation!

Praise to Our MOAB,
Who shall prosper our work and defend us;
Surely her goodness and BS
Shall daily attend us.
Ponder anew what
Our MOAB can do,
Who with her love wilt befriend us.

Praise to Our MOAB,
Let all that is in us adore her!
All that has life and breath
Come now with praises before Her!
Let the "AYE-men"
Sound from her people again,
Now as we spread it around her.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:47 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 27 Jan 05 - 12:08 AM

I dedicate this song to all those MOABITES out there that like to do the boogie down, get up, let your pants slip, give us all lip, hip-hoppin', groovin'and movin', righteous revolutions, findin' solutions, bullshitters.

            And it goes like this......


    Bullshitters Bible

I ain't never met a bullshitter I didn't like
'cuz we got to love each other.
I never done no whoop ass on my bullshitter friend
or else I gonna piss off the Mother.
I'd never steal a story from my bullshittin' brother.
Never call his shit in front of another.
Never regard him slightly, or try to smother.
According to my bullshitter's bible.

I'll believe what ever a bullshitter says
'cuz we're alike in the bullshitter craze.
I won't contradict in front of a child
or the child won't learn the bullshitter ways.
I'll always allow the time for their plays.
I'll smile and laugh when their lost in a daze.
I'll righteously shout out the bullshitter praise.
According to my bullshitter's bible.


With love and a smirk-Rustic

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:51 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 22 Jan 05 - 02:22 PM

"M" is for the "M" that's not in "braindead"
"O" is for the "O" not in "insane"
"A" is for the "A" that's not in "idjit"
"B" is for the "B" not in "airplane"

Put them all together they spell "MOAB"
The name that we do our dear mother call
'Cause if you used four other random letters
They might not spell a goddammed thing at all.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:52 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Stilly River Sage - PM
Date: 22 Jan 05 - 01:43 PM

Amos,
    Pardon me for pointing this out, but that spells "BULLSTHITW" not "BULLSHIT." You need to indent to make it work properly, and resist that capital T and W.




B is for the beauty I see in you
U is for the underwhelm I feel
L is for the laughter
L is for more laughter
S is for the sillyness
----that only you make real
H is for hilarity abounding
I is for infinity you fill
T is for the thousand posts resounding
----which manifests our silly Common Will.


SRS, editor

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 22 Jan 05 - 11:17 AM

B is for the beauty I see in you
U is for the underwhelm I feel
L is for the laughter
L is for more laughter
S is for the sillyness
That only you make real
H is for hilarity abounding
I is for infinity you fill
T is for the thousand posts resounding
Which manifests our silly Common Will.

Oh Bullshit we cannot walk by, ignoring!
Bullshit, we must answer to your call!!
Others claim pure reason's pull,
But we answer, simply, "Bull!"
And it's "Bullshit" say we one
And say we all!

MOAB is my Alma Mater
Percival Bysse Rowntree-Cole
excerpted from:
Understanding: A Wealth of Verse
Bayou Chapbooks Pub, Inc, Baton Rouge, 1949
Reprinted by permission

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:53 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Teresa - PM
Date: 22 Jan 05 - 12:08 AM

M is for the many ways it shits me,
O is for the one that makes me sane.
A is for the arcane things I learn here,
B is for the bull that is so plain ...

Ok, not my best effort, but I thought this might be an ade:quate place to practice. I am only looking up to my favorite BS-ers!

Teresa

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:53 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 21 Jan 05 - 09:07 AM

MOAB Dear, O Pray for Me
(Trad. hymn-type tune, very much like the Catholic hymn "Mother Dear, O Pray For Me" but not enough to violate copyright or to have secret operatives from Opus Dei knock the author off.)

MOAB dear, O pray for me!
Whilst far from Mudcat and thee
I wander in a fragile bark.
O'er life's tempestuous sea.
O dearest MOAB, from thy throne,
So bright in bliss above.
Protect they child and cheer my path
With they sweet smile of love.

MOAB dear, O pray for me!
Should pleasure's siren lay
E'er tempt thy child to wander far
From Virtue's path away.
When thorns beset life's devious way,
And darkling waters flow,
Then MOAB aid thy weeping child,
Thyself a mother show.

Chorus:

MOAB dear, remember me.
And never cease thy care,
Till in BS eternally,
Thy love and bliss I share.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Post - Top - Forum Home - Printer Friendly - Translate
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 21 Jan 05 - 08:44 AM

Do not fret, no, do not worry,
Mother keeps you far from harm
You are broken, she will heal you
Cold, and she will keep you warm

In the world there is no other
Who can take the place of Mother
Let your weary problems fall
In the warmth of Mother;s hall.

Come ye. come ye, bull-shit lover,
To the arms of dearest Mother
Far beyond the dull world's ken
There, you need not fret again.

Hark, oh hark, past wind or snow,
Mother calls, and we must go.


Llewellyn Harttwig Chanticleer, 1878-1942

Songs of American Mothers
Brown, Putnam New York, August, 1928
Reprinted by permission

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 12:54 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 19 Jan 05 - 11:06 PM

Alas I maunder, wondering where
Am I to find the bold Rapaire?
Erudite, quick and sharp of blade
Who virtue never would betray
Nor wisdom shun, nor learning scorn
IN all the days since first was born
The thunderous intellect so rare
The wondrous, mundial might, Rapaire!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 11:56 AM

From Rustic Rebel, 4-23-06, MOAB:

I find it a treasure
To manic a syllogistical relevance,
In the structure of an atomic
Stink bomb,
To the waves of all gratuitous
Motion of rationality.

(line breaks added by Mud-amos).

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 01:55 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 10:32 AM

I had a friend, upon a time, and a mighty friend was he.
His tongue went loop-de-loop-de-loop, and his blade went "Snicker! Snee!".
His fingers typed words of delight
Dancing like light gone made,
But he disappeared quite late, one night,
And the story turned out bad.

It seems his door was knocked upon,
When most folks were in bed,
By two large gents in wrinkled suits
And large, and wrinkled, heads.
They said he had been singled out,
That someone Big was pissed,
Berated him as a useless lout,
And a goddamned plagiarist.

They listed tomes and poems and works
He'd borrowed for a while,
And touted up and frilled out
In inimitable style.
The said he'd never paid a dime
To those whose works he'd borrow,
And all of this was coming back,
To visit him with sorrow.

They told him he was going away,
Into the darkling deeps
Where bad men worry through the day,
And fret too much to sleep.
Where hard men break, and life is hard,
And you scramble for what you get,
And there's no such thing as e-mail,
OR a high-speed Internet.

My friend, he blanched, he paled, he flinched,
He knew that he'd done wrong,
He knew that even then his screen
Held a half-baked stolen song.
He realized then -- too late, too late --
He should have listened, way back when,
To his dear Mom; too late, too late,
He was heard from ne'er again.

And so I come to this Cafe,
To write, and to forget,
But something still recalls to me
This friend I think on yet.
I never learned if he had ever
re-crossed that chilling schism
That split him from the world he loved,
On account of plagiarism.

So good folks all, pray heed this call,
Think of this man, cast doon,
And make your good works all your own,
From your own hand, alone.
Steal not the works of other men,
Or lines of other poets;
For if you do, they'll come for you,
And everyone will know it.

Seamus Sanmerci O'Toole
Lilting the Right -- Poems from the Lexington Express
Dublin Upp Press, New York, 1937
All rights reserved except for Bearded Bruce



Thanks, Amos!   bb

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 01:57 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 11:28 AM

There is no frigate like lampoon      
To take us lands away,      
Nor any coursers like a page      
Of prancing parody.      

This travail may e'en the poet take
Without oppress of toil;      
How frugal is the copyright      
That bares taurian night soil!

Amanda Hortense Dickinsome, For Jessup, Where Ever I May Find Him (Cambridge, Mass.; Hawvawd Universal Press Syndicate, 1898).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 24 Apr 06 - 03:49 PM

With apologies to TL


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 belong.
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: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 01:41 PM

Subject: RE: BS: Who are the Mudcat Icons?
From: weelittledrummer - PM
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 06:49 AM

whats wrong witha bit of self serving martin. waddya want waitress service...?

I used to think an icon
was the thing I leaned my bike on
buts that cos I've low immunity
to a rhymming opportunity

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 02:29 PM

The Icons of Mudcat are brave souls and bold,
And folks to whom fear is a stranger,
They don't flinch at trolls, or at snidety cold,
Nor at anger or spam, or at danger.

It is not for the words that these honorable birds
Continue to say things that matter!
They are not just yakkers, but thinkers, not slackers,
But hard working friends of Mudcatters.

They are strong, but serene -- not just talking machines!
Beware how you choose to malign them!
For the good that they seek's not the words that they speak!
'T is the noble ideas, sir, behind 'em.

B.S. Jelliott
Poet Laureate of the Lesser Vowels

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 02:31 PM

Lesser Vowels? I, O, U?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 04:15 PM

The Order of the Lesser Vowels was a fraternal and charitable organization founded on the principle that even O, U, and Y were indispensable to the richness of our language. It was founded by an eccentric millionaire (ready-made aprons) named I. Payde Forsyth, who was taken by a great love of bad poetry in his declining years and could afford his own Poet Laureate, written off as a tax deduction by the Order.

Any other questions? :D

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 04:32 PM

And is not to be confused with The Order of Vowel Blockage, which was started by Sir Archibald St. Lawrence Grogan-Muirhead in 1902 and which campaigns to the return the letters "j" and "w" to their proper places in the ranks of the vowels.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 04:33 PM

None, save that perhaps a contact might be obtained for the use of those of us utilizing one or more of the Lesser Vowels.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 04:38 PM

Well, unless the Republicans have gotten their fingers into it, the order was dedicated to keeping the Lesser Vowels free for the use of all mankind. So no worries if you are using them somewhere.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 06:18 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 05:58 PM

As I rambled out on the posts of the MOAB,
As I rambled 'round in the MOAB one day,
I spied a curmedgeon a-shovelin' some BS
Shovelin' stuff that used to be hay.

Chorus:

"Oh, shovel it slowly and shovel it lowly,
Play the "Stable Call" you shuffle along,
It'll make your green valley and you flowers bloom gayily
For it's all fertilizer and you can't go wrong."

"I see by your outfit that you hang around MOAB"
These words he did say as I strode by forlorn,
"Come sit down beside me and hear my sad story,
I've been shovelin' this stuff since the day I was born."

"My friends and relations, they live high in clover,
They know not where this old boy has gone,
I first came to Texas and hired on with a politician
Oh, I'm a curmudgeon and I know I've gone wrong."

"Go write a letter to my hoary-haired Mother,
And carry the same to Stilly so dear,
But not a word of this shall you mention
When a crowd gathers round you my story to hear."

"There is another dearer to me than my Mother,
Dearer to me than my cayuse so free,
There is another who's helped me to shovel,
And I mean, of course, the bold Rapaire."

"Go gather around you a crowd of politicians,
And tell them the story of this, my sad fate;
Tell one and the other before they go further
To stop shoveling their BS, tho' I fear it's too late."

"Oh muffle your drums, and play the pipes merrily
Play "Stable Call" as you go along
And fire your six-guns right into my coffin,
'Cuz given my background, you'll make sureI stay down."

"It was once in the Senate I used to go dashing
Once in the House I used to go gay,
First down to the dram-house and then to the girls' house
But I shoveled too much, and I'm dying today."

"Get six MOABites to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty maidens to carry my pall,
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Roses to deaden the stench as it falls."

"Go bring me a cup, a cup of cold lager
To cool my parched lips," this shoveler said;
Before I had turned, the spirit had left him
And he'd gone to his Maker --- the shoveler was dead.

We beat the drum lowly and played the pipes gayily,
And cheered and huzzaed as we bore him along,
We all thought him a broke-dick mammaluca,,
And we thought it as well that now he was gone.

--DeLay Thomas, Shoveling Songs of Old Texas (Austin: Texas Department of State, 1853).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 08:24 PM

Gosh! Rapaire, that's...just...beeeeYOOOtiful! (sniff).

Another generation of fricaseed and puree'd Childs Ballads raises its yewgly visage toward the ancient horizon.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 08:54 PM

You really should read it in context.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 Apr 06 - 10:25 PM

"Context? We don't need no stinkin' context!"

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 26 Apr 06 - 01:25 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 26 Apr 06 - 09:58 AM

I'm a good ole MOAB sojer,
An' that is whut I am
And fer yer pink salvation,
I do not give a damn
I've written things on MOAB
It feels like twenny years
But I flung me lots of fine BS
While hanging on 'round hyere.

I do not care fer fly-by-nights
Or hollow power grabs.
I like a joke whut is a joke,
Like ya find here on MOAB
AN' not them pearly wonders
The collared kind let fall,
Which they assert all serious-like,
Thuh biggest joke of all.

With all respect I do not care
Fer threats of bein' damned.
The divil lays a hand on me
Will find out who I am,
And as fer yer ascensions,
I don't care to pass yore test.
So I think I'll stay on the MOAB
Where life still has some zest.

I can't take to the streets no more,
Like we did in '68.
But I ain't about to be yer sheep,
No, sheep will have to wait.
And I will not pray to anyone
To forgive for what I am.
And I don't want yer salvation, sir,
And I do not give a damn.


Rasty Rusty Raritan, the Rambling Rip-roarer
"Songs Full of Rs"
Wallaby Dammed Publishing
Incontinence, New South Wales, 1939

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 26 Apr 06 - 06:33 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 26 Apr 06 - 09:58 AM

I'm a good ole MOAB sojer,
An' that is whut I am
And fer yer pink salvation,
I do not give a damn
I've written things on MOAB
It feels like twenny years
But I flung me lots of fine BS
While hanging on 'round hyere.

I do not care fer fly-by-nights
Or hollow power grabs.
I like a joke whut is a joke,
Like ya find here on MOAB
AN' not them pearly wonders
The collared kind let fall,
Which they assert all serious-like,
Thuh biggest joke of all.

With all respect I do not care
Fer threats of bein' damned.
The divil lays a hand on me
Will find out who I am,
And as fer yer ascensions,
I don't care to pass yore test.
So I think I'll stay on the MOAB
Where life still has some zest.

I can't take to the streets no more,
Like we did in '68.
But I ain't about to be yer sheep,
No, sheep will have to wait.
And I will not pray to anyone
To forgive for what I am.
And I don't want yer salvation, sir,
And I do not give a damn.


Rasty Rusty Raritan, the Rambling Rip-roarer
"Songs Full of Rs"
Wallaby Dammed Publishing
Incontinence, New South Wales, 1939

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 27 Apr 06 - 09:09 AM

Hah! I just posted a pome to the MOAB and it ain't here yet! Hah again!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 27 Apr 06 - 01:19 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 27 Apr 06 - 09:07 AM

I'm an old MOABite poster
I wallow in its muck,
And for these other posters
I do not give a...shuck,
I'll tell all those do-gooders
Just where they all can go,
Saying I don't want your opinions, man,
I like the status quo.

I'm erudite and really smart,
I can post in Latin too!
I've posted so much BS here
Politicians kiss my shoe.
I'm talented and musical
I play an instrument or six,
And I know the diff between E-flat
A glissando and a pick.

Someday when I'm dead and gone
And all this pain is o'er,
I'll spend Eternity with Mom,
And post and post some more.
'Cause Mom's the best there ever was,
The best that you Khandu,
And I'll post in Pictish, Greek and fred
But rarely in Urdu.
          -- Maybelline Nolver, The Unrepentant MOABite
             (Moab, Utah: Privately Published, fl.1831).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 27 Apr 06 - 01:19 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 27 Apr 06 - 10:24 AM

Perhaps in her Rowdy Ramblin' days.

I am a young man who has gone wrong
Fiddly foodly fee,
I am a young who has gone wrong
So you sit still and list to my song,
Foodly fiddly fee.

Chorus (ad nauseam):
Sing foodly fiddly fiddly foo,
Rarely rearly roo
I am a young man
Who has gone wrong
And I'll swing for it
But not for this song,
Mumblety rootelee dee.

I took my sword and I took my gun,
Fiddly foodly fee,
And I left dear MOAB on the run
And took to the highway to have some fun,
Foodly fiddly fee.

I robbed the poor and I robbed the rich
Fiddly foodly fee,
I robbed the poor and I robbed the rich,
And even Lord Backstrap, that sonuvabitch,
Foodly fiddly fee.

Fair young maids I kissed each day,
Fiddly foodly fee,
Fair young maids I kissed each day,
And with some rolled in the fresh-cut hay,
Foodly fiddly fee.

I diddled Lord Backstrap's daughter fair
Fiddly foodly fee,
I diddled Lord Backstrap's daughter fair,
And how his servants they did stare,
Fiddly foodly fee.

They took me up and threw me in gaol,
Fiddly, etc.
They took me up and threw me in gaol,
With a splintery cot and a stinking pail
Fiddly, etc.

Tomorrow morning I'll be hung,
Fiddly, etc.
Tomorrow morning I'll be...hung,
Aw, shit man! You think I'm happy about it, doncha?
You think I'm one of those romantic twits who robbed the rich and gave to the poor! Bull! I robbed them both and kept it! And spent it, too! Well, I want a lawyer! I want an appeal, damnit!
At least a reprieve! Better yet, a pardon! I'll do gross and disgusting things for a pardon! I'll become a Republic...well, no, better dead than red....

             --From the singing of "Big" Johnny Littlejohn, ca. 1712.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 02:19 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 29 Apr 06 - 11:02 PM

Ah, well. I shall post the lyrics to my song.

MOAB dear! MOAB dear!
In far off Idaho I heard your call
MOAB dear! MOAB dear!!
And here am I to give my all
I know in my soul what you expect of me
And all that and more I shall be!
A MOABite should be quite BSible
Succeed where a less fantastic man would fail
Climb to the heights no else can climb
Cleave a GUEST in record time
Post BS tho' he is without e-mail!
No matter the pun he ought to be unwinceable
Impossible tales should be his daily fare
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so extraordinaire?

C'est moi! C'est moi!
I'm forced to admit
'Tis I, I humbly reply
That mortal who
These marvels can do
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I
I've never lost
In battle or game
I'm simply the best by far
When words are cross'd
'Tis always the same
One pun and au revoir!
C'est moi! C'est moi!
So admir'bly fit
A Idahoer of Rabelasian cheer
And here I stand with BS untold
Exception'lly brave, amazingly bold
To serve our MOAB dear!

The soul of a MOABite should be so sparkable
Yet my heart and my mind are pure as morning dew
With a will and a self-restraint
That's the envy of ev'ry saint
I could easily work a miracle or two
In love and desire I ought to be remarkable
Tho' ways of the flesh doth offer no allure
But where in the world
Is there in the world
A man so untouch'd and pure?

[spoken] C'est moi

C'est moi! C'est moi!
I blush to disclose, I'm far too noble to lie
That person in whom these qualities bloom
C'est moi, c'est moi, 'tis I

I've never stray'd from all I believe
I'm bless'd with an iron gut
Had I been made the partner of Eve
We'd all be in still in rut!
C'est moi! C'est moi
The angels have chose to post their postings below
And here I stand as pure as a pray'r
Incredibly clean, with virtue to spare
The MOABitest man I know!
C'est moi!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 06:47 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 01 May 06 - 06:43 PM

MEN'S CHORUS:
The freds, the Ralphs, the Legion, the pomes
The visitors that don't know up from down

WOMEN'S CHORUS:
The eyeaches, the earaches, the migraines, the flops
The martians invading every town

MEN'S CHORUS:
The postings when your heart beats like a drum

WOMEN'S CHORUS:
The panic when the BS doesn't come

ALLS:
There's no business like MOAB business
Like no business I know

MEN'S CHORUS:
Everything about it is apalling

WOMEN'S CHORUS:
Every pun the traffic will allow

MEN'S CHORUS:
No where could you find a duckdog reeling

ALL:
When you're petting old Gluon!
There's no people like MOAB people
They smile because they are low

MEN'S CHORUS:
Yesterday they told you you would not go far

WOMEN'S CHORUS:
That night you posted and here you are

MEN'S CHORUS:
Next day you find yourself hangin' round a bar

ALL:
Let's go, on with the posts!

MEN'S CHORUS:
There's Amos, and Stilly, and Bee-Dub, and Tweed
There's Khandu, who started the whole mess --

WOMEN'S CHORUS:
There's music, there's poems, there's science, there's puns
The Catters who have posted, every one,

MEN'S CHORUS:
The BS and the horse poop and the smell

WOMEN'S CHORUS:
The Reverend Jimmy Ray we'd like to quell

ALL:
There's no BS like MOAB BS
Try it, you'll know it's so
Folks from everywhere are coming posting
Standing out in front of all their friends
Smiling as you watch dear MOAB filling
And see the postings that never end!

There's no people like MOAB people
They'll laugh at you because like them you're low
Because you are a turkey and your wit is old
They'll kick you out and leave out in the cold
Still you wouldn't trade 'em for a sack o' gold
Let's go on with MOAB!
Let's go on with MOAB!
The MOAB!
The MOAB!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 06:51 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 01 May 06 - 06:47 PM

The preceeding was from Irving Frankfurtamrhine's Gunny, get your aunt!, a play from way, way, off-Broadway (opened in Mendon, Illinois on March 7, 1948, closed March 7, 1948).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 08:02 PM

well, it contains the attempt...


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 01 May 06 - 07:55 PM

So how high do your balls bounce Rapaire? And when you drop them from forehead height does it....Oh forget that..I don't even want to really know!

The MOTHER Got Balls by Gettemwhile Yewcan.

So what's up folks? I stay away for a week and you forget about me? My name doesn't rhyme with anything or what? Gee-whiz and golly snickit. I notice even the Rev. Billy Ray or what ever he called himself, left Bee-dubya and me out of his redeeming rehabilitation quest to purify the MOAB. We must be the puritans around here!
Yes that's it!

Rustically Rebel and Bee-Dubya-ell
They are pure and won't go to hell!
They like to bullshit and some tales they do tell
Damn those two, sure are swell...ed!

Yours true-Rustically Rebelish
PS-If anyone was wondering-I am not the Rev. Ray- I do have some dignity!
PS again- I'm once again heading to Fargo in the morn-My quest for the rings continues without falter.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 08:13 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 01 May 06 - 08:10 PM

Well shit I sure screwed that up-It was Mmario that wasn't mentioned. So we are the puritans-I knew when I said Bee-Dubya it didn't feel quite right.

MMario and Rustic pure in their way
Like to bullshit, all through the day
With a wise crack here and a joke on the side,
Up in heaven, will be a good place to hide!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rustic Rebel
Date: 01 May 06 - 08:17 PM

BeardedBruce- Those were kind of an insider thing. I will forgive you though! What I want to know is how you did that so fast?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 08:21 PM

It ain't rocket science- and if it was, I have that covered, as a rocket scientist. All it takes is a high speed data link, and time between spacecraft passes...


But you will never know when I am watching you!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 10:59 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 01 May 06 - 10:57 PM

No, Six, it isa much more than this. Go back to page 1 and read forward. All will become clear.

Oh Rustical Rebel, O, Rebel my dear,
Your wit is so deep, and your eyes are so clear,
Your arms and your fingers are pure, I confess,
But the mind also lingers upon all the rest.
So random and wild are the spins we are in,
When you drift amongst us, your MOABITE kin,
That the end can't be figgered
From where it begins,
In the shadowy tendrils of bullshit.

Oh, BW, BW, BWL,
Whose humor and insight goes too far to tell,
From the Florida sky to his downy deep vale,
Where his clay pots lie patiently drying their tails,
So wicked the flashing of lightning like wit,
As he toils in the earth,
and the storm, and the pit,
Midst the shadowy tendrils of bullshit!

Rapaire in the Northland, where the egos grow tall,
Where space is wide open, and nothing looks small,
Where a man is as big as the blue sky he smells,
And as sturdy and tall as the bullshit he tells,
He's winsome and lithe,
And much more than alive,
In the flowering tendrils
of bullshit!

And Steady-On Stilly, of well-lettered zest,
Transplanted to Texas from the wooly Northwest,
With marvelous treasure hidden deep in her mind,
Which leave all her fellows at MOAB stone blind
So clear and unscarred,
With her dogs, in her yard,
Midst the delicate tendrils of bullshit!

There's dozens of others whose names I could name
Who have conquered the MOAB, who well deserve fame
But I don't have forever, and they know who they are,
Each fellow a poet, and each lass a star
As we follow this spiralling back-slapping trail,
Where no-one can falter, and no-one can fail
Midst the perilous tendrils of bullshit!

Agonistes Perihelion III,
Advocate-General of the Public Weal
Peon Paeans and Those Who Write Them
Byronme and Pisceonyu,
Long Beach, California, 1897

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 01 May 06 - 11:16 PM

Two minutes?   This has got to be a kiddy script.


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 11:23 PM

Nope. Just lucky, I guess

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 11:28 PM

Amos,

Rememeber the old backups to NORAD? 48 bit machines, BUICK-3 or some such?

They had to be operational at all times, but were never used unless NORAD's prime system went down. So, operators got to program whatever they wanted, to make sure they were running ok ( easy enough to dump the load and reset with the operational software) The control console had a tone generator, to generate test tones, so.... First time I ever heard computer generated music.

The point is, I have to be here, the lines have to be up, I have to stay awake, and Mudcat is safer for my job than some of the other sites I could be visiting...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 May 06 - 11:36 PM

of course, every shift must end...



100!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 May 06 - 02:47 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 31 Oct 04 - 03:31 AM

Oh faded memory of the great MOAB,what has become of you?
We wallow in a world of poems from here to Timbuktu.
To recall all the bullshit from the past,
is neither up to me or you,
but what I ask of you good folks now,
is to get up and pee in your shoe.


I said that too.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 May 06 - 02:58 PM

: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Bee-dubya-ell - PM
Date: 13 Nov 04 - 11:21 AM

This message doesn't bounce around.
This message just sits on the ground.
Its colors are not red or green,
Just dull old black, a bit boring.
No fonts larger or smaller than
Whatever comes out of the can.
No creepy letters dripping bile.
No blinky words to make you smile.
HTML it does eschew.
You read it just the same, didn't you?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 May 06 - 07:40 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rustic Rebel - PM
Date: 02 May 06 - 07:30 PM

Now that you mention it King Kandu, I thought her birthday was yesterday. I spaced it out. Are you sure it wasn't yesterday? I think so, and now that I'm back in here. I found something awhile back celebrating her year and a day, because I missed Mother's first Birthday...It went like this,

Happy Day Late oh Mother May 6, '02
To honor MOAB on her one year and a day jubilee
3000 Playmate Paul Doll balloons with erectile penises I set free.
With bleary eyes, I blinked back a tear
Remembering the joy and bullshit of the past year.
I missed the party that was or was not held,
but,3000 Playmate Paul Doll balloons with erectile penises swelled
....with helium. I rose a glass of whiskey, and watched them disappear to the north, west, east and south.
And to my final contentment, I poured the whiskey in my mouth.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 May 06 - 08:47 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 02 May 06 - 08:42 PM

Melischia, MOAB grata, grata MOAB, MOAB ma,
Balitatita ma nogawa, chesirt schaywa Mudcat nou!
Khandu nascit grata MOAB, plucal mina jist agou
Doncar malwa
Doncar belwa
Grata MOAB falsii fa!

Go nigewat, grata MOAB, grata MOAB, MOAB cha,
Inde Mudcat, sicut nalpam, grata MOAB Amos flut,
Ert na Rustic Rebel, Stilly, boucat nat charsna clut
Doncar malwa
Doncar belwa
Grata MOAB falsii fa!

Agan Mudcat, grata MOAB, grata MOAB, MOAB da,
Mene shlafawn, mene Bee-Dub, mene LH, plucal fatri
Esheen golwat Max ba Joe shees, Tweed na bota chatari!
Doncar malwa
Doncar belwa
Grata MOAB falsii fa!

          --Harry Ankhenaten Sales, The Big Book of Good Poems
            (Tooten Common: Scarred Abs Press, 1922)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 02 May 06 - 08:59 PM

Ha! I made that up! It has no meaning whatsoever that I'm aware of!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 May 06 - 09:08 PM

sorry, editing is extra. I try not to make value judgements about your work...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rustic Rebel
Date: 02 May 06 - 10:14 PM

If it weren't for me, brain dead,
I'd a be a writin'
A poem for the bearded one.
Since I can hardly think straight
Can't seem to concentrate
Bearded man will have to create
A poem for himself, instead.

Rap man-That is too damn funny!!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 04 May 06 - 11:28 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 04 May 06 - 10:38 PM

I am a Mudcat snowcone
Way out in Idaho,
Melting in the sunshine
Freezing in the snow.
Posting to MOAB
Now and then,
Dodging GUESTs,
And hanging ten
I am a Mudcat snowcone
Way out in Idaho.

    -- Jay Lon Wennings, Poems and Songs Unfinished (Atomic City,            
       Idaho: 1902)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 05 May 06 - 06:44 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 05 May 06 - 06:42 PM

'Tis the song of Rapaire
Standing at the bar-room door
While the shameful midnight revel
Rages wildly as before.

MOAB, dear MOAB, come home with me, now!
The clock on the steeple strikes one;
You said you were coming straight home from the mall,
As soon as your shopping was done.
Our fire has gone out, our house is all dark,
And Stilly's been waiting since tea,
With poor brother Amos so sick in her arms,
And no one to help her but me.
Come home, come home, come home!
Please MOAB, dear MOAB come home.

cho: Hear the sweet voice of the child,
Which the night winds repeat as they roam!
Oh who could resist this most plaintive of cries,
"Please MOAB dear MOAB come home."

MOAB, dear MOAB, come home with me, now!
The clock on the steeple strikes two;
The night has grown colder and Amos is worse,
But he has been calling for you.
Indeed he is worse, Stilly says he will croak
Perhaps before morning shall dawn;
And this is the message she sent me to bring,
"Come quickly! Or he will be gone."
Come home, come home, come home!
Please MOAB, dear MOAB come home.


MOAB, dear MOAB, come home with me, now!
The clock on the steeple strikes three,
The house is so lonely, the hours are so long
For poor weeping Stilly and me.
Yes we are alone now; poor Amos has kicked
And gone to the realms down below,
And these were the very last words that he said
"I want to kiss MOAB goodnight."
Come home, come home, come home!
Please MOAB, dear MOAB come home.

                   --Songs of Temporary Worth (NY: Temporary   
                      Publications, 1877).

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Stilly River Sage
Date: 05 May 06 - 08:11 PM

Why distill down all of the good works on MOAB? People can go over to the real thing and read for themselves.

SRS

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 May 06 - 03:32 PM

Amos - PM
Date: 09 May 06 - 03:31 PM

Another 10-spot for Rapaire, the Idaho Gambler, and te reckless bids keep coming. Who's bluffing? Who's got the high hand? Who has straight flush BS with royal tops? Who's just staring down the opposition, sitting on an explosive, ruinous "fold" and claiming four of a kind in the BS stakes?

You got to know when to copy,
When to act sloppy,
Know when to shovel crap,
An' when to bite your tongue
And you never count your postings
When your still composing BS,
There'll be lots of time for counting posts
When the BS is all done

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 14 May 06 - 04:08 PM

Subject: RE: From Max: State of the Union Address
From: McGrath of Harlow - PM
Date: 12 May 06 - 06:50 PM

... I wrote a song about the Mudcat when I first came upon it, way back in the 20th Century, and it still sums up what it seems to me it's about. Here it is again. (The words have changed a little bit, the way songs do, so that's an excuse to post it once more) :

The Blue Clicky Thing

I spied it one day, I was trawling the net,
a fish like a cat, that's the strangest one yet.
When I reached out to touch it, things started to spin -
I was off for a ride down that Blue Clicky Thing.
The Blue Clicky Thing, the Blue Clicky Thing,
it can take you away like a magical ring.
It can make you as free as a bird on the wing,
the Mudcat Cafe and the Blue Clicky Thing.

I was off on a ride and admiring the view,
there were places I got to that I never knew,
there were stories to share, there were songs you could sing,
there were all kinds of folk down that Blue Clicky Thing.
The Blue Clicky Thing, the Blue Clicky Thing,
it can take you away like a magical ring,
It can make you as free as a bird on the wing,
the Mudcat Cafe and the Blue Clicky Thing

There were names you could mutter and photos to see,
of neighbours next door, 'cross the wide rolling sea,
and a tavern where you could drop in for a drink,
and gossip with friends, down that Blue Clicky Thing.
The Blue Clicky Thing, the Blue Clicky Thing,
it can take you away like a magical ring,
It can make you as free as a bird on the wing,
The Mudcat Cafe and the Blue Clicky Thing.

Well I try to explain, and you might understand,
it's a fine place to go to when you're feeling grand -
but when your heart's heavy, and you're shackled and pinned,
you can reach out and find help down that Blue Clicky Thing
The Blue Clicky Thing, the Blue Clicky Thing,
it can take you away like a magical ring,
Don't it hold us together like brown paper and string?
The Mudcat Cafe and the Blue Clicky Thing.
...........................

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 14 May 06 - 04:40 PM

I walked in the house feeling fed up and fat,
And my old man told me he'd murdered the cat.
He said he had used my 38 shooter,
I thought he'd blasted my personal computer.
I thought my end with the mudcat had come,
That he had committed an act so dumb.
I would never be reading this BS thread,
I wholly believed that my mudcat was dead.
Then I saw poor 'ollie' stretched out on the floor,
My brown and white cat would breathe no more.
I felt so relieved my computer was fine,
I celebrated with good French wine.
I booted up quickly in anticipation,
And sat intently at my workstation.
Engaged the internet, on my way,
To come again to the mudcat cafe.
But then it happened as often before,
I could not get through to the cat any more.
I tried and I tried without success,
And got myself in a dreadful mess.
I had to wait almost a day,
To get back on the old cafe.
But it is worth it as you know,
When I'm here it's hard to go.
But now I think I should depart,
To go and play a different part.
To meet my mate in the local pub.
To have a bevvy before the club.
So goodbye all I'll see you soon,
At a festival some afternoon.
Or in a folk club singing loud,
Amongst our happy 'Folkie' crowd

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 15 May 06 - 10:50 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 10:47 AM

Dibbing ribs is double trouble
Adam's dam will triple rubble,
Addled dabblers daubed with paint,
Divil's dry debate with saint,
Fulsome prose, and rich ad libs,
Never born of dibbing ribs.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 15 May 06 - 03:25 PM

Subject: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: BuckMulligan - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 02:28 PM

Kicking it off; everybody know the talkin' blues form - take it away...

I was browsin' through Mudcat the other day
When I saw this thread from Max to say
That "this here shit's gotta stop and
Some of you go"

So I read on down a message or two
And it wasn't long before I knew
The shit was just gonna roll
And roll and roll

Downhill
From the Shambles,
Gatherin speed and mass
Like an avalanche.



Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: Richard Bridge - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 02:36 PM

FIrst and second line last verse need more syllables.    Maybe

Rollin' down hill from the Hammond to the Sham...

Gives the advantage of the half-rhyme of "sham" to "..anche"

In fact scansion generally could do with a bit of polishing.

Over to the Mudcat for developoment of this fine work!


Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: John 'Giok' MacKenzie - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 02:55 PM

Well lookin' down that road I see
Max Spiegel a drivin' his old MG
It was runnin' bad, n' Max was wishin
He could kill that MGs bad emissions

It was runnin' wild, and out of control
It didn't rock, it could only roll
It was loud it was bad it was makin' Max suffer
So he fitted it with, an all round muffler

Badge shaped like an octagon
Ought ta gone
A long
Long
Time ago.


Giok

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: The Shambles - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 03:00 PM

Thinking hard about trying write this song
About why folks just don't get along
Even when they ain't even together
Not even in the same room

I sure is funny but it ain't no joke
So many ways to upset some folks
Seem so judgemental
Kinda uptight

Tense
Like a pressure cooker
Gettin up steam
Just cookin.....


Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: Janie - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 03:16 PM

Well Giok, he roared but the Sham didn't stumble
Guest clapped his hands, shouted "Ready for to Rumble!"
Sham nor Clint knew how to take a hint
Meanwhile us lurkers is really gettin' bent
Some of us cryin' "Why can't we be friends"
Shut the Mudcat down I'm sure to get the bends
I got the Mudcat, Mudcat,
Mudcat Blues

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 15 May 06 - 03:50 PM

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: GUEST
Date: 15 May 06 - 03:48 PM

Listenin' to all you folks ramble
Makes me think you do like Shambles
True he drives some of ya nuts
But y'all admit he does have guts
His thoughts about the Mudcat site
They may be wrong, they may be right,
But he's as wrong or right as you
At least inside this talkin' blues

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 15 May 06 - 04:17 PM

Now look here, folkies,
What are you thinkin'?
The way you treat this
Boy is stinkin'!
He may be boring, he may be obsessive,
His perseverant moans may be passive-aggressive,
And sure you get tired,
And sure you're annoyed,
But just take it all like Sigmund Freud!

Figger it out,
Analyze it.
Invent some TERminology....

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 07:01 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: GUEST,Rustically Rebellious - PM
Date: 16 May 06 - 12:29 AM

Hello Mudder
Hello fadder's Mudder
I am not here to be preachin' the word of mudder=Unless I really mudder.
If my mudder sounds like words,
I will mudder like pretty, little, feathered, colorful, tweety birds
If I make even a slightly different tweet,
Then you'll know my mudder is sweet.....
as Mudder....

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 07:02 AM

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: freda underhill - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 04:59 PM

If you want to get to mudcat,
Let me tell you how to do it:
Gotta grease that mouse in a little mutton suet,
Slide right out of the keyboard's hand,
And ooze right over in the Mudcat Land,
Go easy. Make it easy. Not sleazy.

Standin' in the corner by the Union thread,
Watchin the words click past unread;
He oiled his tongue with a little mud grease,
Went slippin' up and down that mudcatpiece.
Huntin' threads. Stray posts. Chewin' it over. Left overs.

Make up the beds, gal, make 'em up nice,
Clean out the house, and chase out the mice,
By the kitchen table, and set it up right,
'Cause old Jerry R's gonna be here tonight.
And Ron. Loves cakes. Loves the music, too.

Standin' on the corner, standin' like a man,
Standin' on the corner was a Chongo man.
Standin' on the corner a banana in his hand
Waitin' for summin from the Shatner man.
'Lasses. Sweetlin' potatoes. Cold biscuits.

Down in the wildwood, singin with a bird,
My finger on the keyboard and my eye on a word.
I pressed that trigger and the post said "blip,"
Jumped on that thread with all my grip.
Ears' a mud eye. not a fly by.

Behind the chatroom the other night
It was awful dark and I had no light.
And Sorcha's dog run out by chance
And he bit a big hole in the seat of my pants.
I jumped gullies. Robe bushes. Plowed ground. Felt funny.

Behind the MOAB on my knees
I thought I heard a catspaw sneeze;
Only Ol Amos talkin' his prayers
And givin' out hymns to that Bush upstairs.
Just preachin'. Hens a-singin'. Little young chickens just a-hopin'...


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Post - Top - Forum Home - Printer Friendly - Translate
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: The Shambles - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 05:00 PM

When you think you thought-up something new
An orignal truth something true
Your feelin real pride
Down deep inside

Always some fella comes along
Cocks an ear to your song
And says - sounds kinda familar
Traditional I reckon

Or maybe Woody?
Kinda forlorn
Perhaps one o mine?
Ain't one o yorn ....Too syncopated

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 07:02 AM

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: The Shambles - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 05:22 PM

C'mon Ron - give us a song.

For that's what youe supposed to think
It'd cause such a big stink
To know where he's a buried
Good and deep

Burnt Rambling Jack instead
Although is wasn't dead
Had to stop him singing someway
Kinda did the trick

Buried Woody alright
Dig it
Not sure who this one is
Some kind of imposter

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 07:03 AM

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: open mike - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 05:33 PM

I logged on one lonely night
just to find a mudcat fight
mud was a-slinging left and right
all i wanted was a song tonight

we all love a good folk song
why can't we all just get along?
to this family we all belong
dysfunctional though, right or wrong

Think about Woody, don't you see?
What if he were you or me
he would vote for unity
ashes churnin' in the sea...

Sometimes to achieve a finer union
To cure the problem, find the solution
we might need a revolution
to gain a final resolution



Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: John Hardly - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 05:35 PM

I was lookin for truth
Kinda hard to find
But my method was good
The Socratic kind
Ran into lotsa other seekers
They all opined
Is it folk? Songwhiner blues?
It's neither. What? ...you blind?

No conclusions
244 post thread
Not like it use t'be
But it never was...




Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: Bert - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 06:23 PM

Just bin readin' this new thread
and there is something should be said
Mudcat now is such a mess
this thread should be prefixed BS:
And we need a section for all assholes
that should be prefixed just for TROLLS:


Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: The Shambles - PM
Date: 15 May 06 - 06:34 PM

Thought that bully really hated me
Thought that I never would be free
I can feel it now
Blind fear in my guts

Wanted to fight and even tried.
Terror gripped me deep inside
Rage and shame
Guilt and blame

Not small stuff
The works
He doesn't know who I am nowadays
Probably didn't then
Didn't hate me - just had other problems

Do I hate him?
He taught me what the word meant.....I hate him for that

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 07:04 AM

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: The Shambles - PM
Date: 16 May 06 - 05:09 AM

You find money for this and money for that
To doctor the dog and castrate the cat
Sometimes it seems like there ain't no end
And then
You find something good and FREE

Well there it is writ-up large
No tricks, no con, no hidden charge
This here Mudcat Cafe - come in and stay
Hoooooray!

But everything has its price
Sure as eggs is eggs
Sure as sure begins with the the letter Z
Free
Yes Siree
A bit like that there new Ramblin Jack
Imposterin.................

Well it ain't all bad - it ain't all good either
It's kinda what you make it.....................




Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: The Shambles - PM
Date: 16 May 06 - 05:51 AM

Like at the funfair and which to ride
Like to try em all but you gotta decide
How to ride and buy a candy floss too
Or a toffee apple.

To have a the really best day out
You'll be glad to pay out
And to throw at coconuts
Should be worth the price

You pay much
To get them thrown at you?
Or them hard wooden balls
Kinda poor value
Bruisin too...........

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 10:14 AM

Subject: RE: State of the Mudcat Union Talkin' Blues
From: John Hardly - PM
Date: 16 May 06 - 10:12 AM

Well I was at the computer the other day
Talking with folks from miles away
When my wife yells in from the other room
HEY! You gonna be finished in there soon?!

             I said Wha..(cleverly disguising the fact
             That I was only HALF-way listening to her)..
             OK.   I wasn't listening to her at all.

Anyway, she says "So, what're you doin?"
"Practicing guitar, I'll be done soon"
Well she may be blonde, but she's not dumb'
She fires back in her gentle way,

               Well how come…
               I don't hear…
               A guitar…..?

Well, guitar, I say, is a MENTAL thing
You practice your MIND to make it sing
By then she's slipped into the room
I sense the lowering of the boom

                And she's looking…
                Over my shoulder…
                She's reading…
                                    
Shambles? Little Hawk? Bobert?
Katlughing? Magrath of Harlew?
What-the-heck-is-that?

Well, that there is the Mudcat, dear!
"hmmmmm. So what's a mudcat?" she said.
Well that's a place were people who used to make music
Go to talk instead

Retirement
Rest for the vocal chords
Save money on guitar strings.

So she reads a while and then she says
"Seems like the ones who talk the most
Are the ones who say the least.
"Well" sez I, "there can only be a few gems...

The rest are the black velvet
Against which
You show off the diamonds

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 16 May 06 - 11:33 AM

Subject: RE: Max Appreciation Thread
From: Amos - PM
Date: 15 Jul 01 - 12:51 PM


MudCat Maxie

Tune: Fishin'

Well, let me tell you people 'bout a place I stay
On the WWW line.
There's a gent out there from old P.A.
Built a site that's awful fine.
Now old Maxie Spiegel said, "Ya gotta know,
I'm gonna build me a place for the Folkies to go."
MudCat town is the place to go,
Thanks to Mister Spiegel
He even made it legal!
Maxie Spiegel's Mudcat show!


Baby if its blues that are on your mind
MudCat is the thing for you!
Just browse on over to the Mudcat sign
And find yourself a clicky blue.
You can pull up blues 'til the cows come home
And run down the threads til your blues are gone

MudCat town is the place to go,
Thanks to Mister Spiegel
He even made it legal!
Maxie Spiegel's Mudcat show!

If you wanna know the story of the farmer's wife
Or the chords to "Buddy Have You Got a Dime?"
Just come on down, and you bet your life,
You'll get you an answer in record time.
No use moaning, or feelin' blue,
Baby, you can be a folkie too!

MudCat town is the place to go,
Thanks to Mister Spiegel
He even made it legal!
Maxie Spiegel's Mudcat show!

We got a frozen folkie from the icey North
Mister Skarpi from Reykjavik town
And Andre from the far Argentine
Where the gauchos lay their music down
We've got folkies from Pamplona, and from Bayou Blue,
Wales and Paris, and Dublin too!

Mudcat town is the place to go,
Thanks to Mister Spiegel,
He even keeps it legal!
Maxie Spiegel's Mudcat town!

There's the pride of the beavers, the Canuck Kid,
And his students playing bluegrass trills
We've got cowgirls from Wyoming and from Ozland too,
With knickers that just won't stand still!
We've got whalers and sailors from the coast of Maine,
Even got a Cajun gal from Pont-Chartrain,

Mudcat town is the place to go,
Thanks to Mister Spiegel,
He even keeps it legal!
Maxie Spiegel's Mudcat town!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 18 May 06 - 11:27 AM

Subject: RE: 2005 Getaway Reflections Here...
From: John 'Giok' MacKenzie - PM
Date: 03 Nov 05 - 09:27 AM

Runaround Who?

Here's my story sad but true, about a plucker I once knew
He took his axe and he played around, with every other kind of sound
He played the blues he played some soul, he some tunes that are very old
But I tell you girls he'll steal your heart, he's just a round heeled musical tart.

A A Amos Jessup
A A Amos Jessup
A A Amos Jessup
With his baritone and his D35
He'll be the last one left alive.


Sorry Amos, just couldn't resist that one, *BG*
Giok

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 25 May 06 - 06:27 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 24 May 06 - 10:16 PM

Why, it's good old reliable Rapaire, Rapaire, Rapaire, Rapaire from Pocatello,
If you're looking for information, he'll turn it on the spot,
Even when the heat is on, for him it's never too hot.
But for the good old reliable Rapaire, oh it's only just a short stroll,
To the oldest established permanent floating info center in the World.
There are well-heeled searchers everywhere, everywhere,
There are well-heeled searchers everywhere,
And awful lot of lettuce for the fella who can get us to play.
If we only had a lousy little byte, we could be a millionaire.
Oh the good old reliable Rapaire, Rapaire, Rapaire, Rapaire from Pocatello,
If the size of your knowledge you want to increase,
He'll arrange that you go nuts in quiet and peace,
In a carrell provided by Rapaire, where there are no neighbors to howl,
It's the oldest established permanent info center in the World.
Where's the action? What's the game?
Gotta have the game or we'll die from shame.
It's the oldest established permanent floating info center in the World.

                --Nathan Detroit, For Love AND Money (New
                  Yawk: Crap Press, 1948)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 26 May 06 - 08:47 AM

Subject: RE: BS: Let's NAME Max & Emily's NEW BABY
From: Flash Company - PM
Date: 26 May 06 - 05:16 AM

I realiise that when I try to make an Ogden Nash of it, I usually make a hash of it,but I couldn't resist this.

Come along now,everbody, come and name the baby,
Such a little darlin' really ought to have a name,
We can post it on the Mudcat, under b------t maybe,
Pretty soon now everyone will come and join the game,

Here comes Uncle Catspaw
With Jonathon Livingstone to offer,
Surely J L Spiegel has a quite majestic ring,
And if you're inclined to think tha 'Spaw is just a scoffer,
Evil Eye Fleegle Spiegel might be just the very thing,
Uncle John McKenzie thinks that joining names is cool, man
Max, Emily, Lily, Alexis bring Melanie to mind,
Rapaire thinks Catherine, calling her Cat would be the plan,
Ernest's thoughts of Bullheads relly are not really very kind


More to follow

FC

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 26 May 06 - 10:46 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 26 May 06 - 09:43 AM

The night is musk and misty, Rustic
Magic made from musty passage,
Mirrored memes insistent, marking
All the moments of your memory.

Musky, misty, Rustic mumbling
Makes the evening daring, laughing
And the menial melt with passing
Into light from murkly darkening.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 26 May 06 - 05:48 PM

Subject: RE: From Max: Mudcat Update
From: Jeri - PM
Date: 26 May 06 - 05:36 PM

Getaway: Labor songs workshop.

My start at one (a parody, although the tune I know's a bit different):

Push, push, push, push,
And bear down on the kid
Squeeze him toward the portal
Just like your momma did
Grab ahold of daddy dear
Forget it he never shall
When baby navigated
Down the birth-I-ing canal

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 27 May 06 - 01:11 PM

Subject: RE: BS: Let's NAME Max & Emily's NEW BABY
From: JennyO - PM
Date: 27 May 06 - 02:41 AM

Max, I was telling jack halyard (John Warner) about the latest events, and how you had mentioned fibre optics and the new baby in the same post, and that there was a thread about naming the baby.

I was already thinking along the lines of "Fibre Optic Baby", so - not needing much encouragement to write a song at the drop of a hat - he came up with this one, complete with naming suggestion, in about two minutes - to the tune of "Lachlan Tigers":

A fibre optic baby
It's plain to see you are,
It's also plain the LED
Will be your lucky star.
Go buy a Martin 12 string
A Gibson's not the same,
And sing your songs like Huddie L
'LEDbaby' is your name.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 04 Jun 06 - 06:39 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 03 Jun 06 - 01:39 PM

Rustic Rebel loves to pome,
Pomes all day when she's tuh home!
But when she's out upon the range,
Something makes her pomes go strange!
Locoweed, from up the hill,
Celery, or maybe dill,
Some damn vegetable or uvver,
But strange or not, usn's still luvver.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 15 Jun 06 - 02:17 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 15 Jun 06 - 11:29 AM

Our postings now are ended. These our actors,      
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and               
Are melted into air, into thin air;      
And, like the baseless fabric of the Mudcat,      
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous postings,      
The solemn songsters, the great Cafe itself,               
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve      
And, like an insubstantial pageant faded,      
Leave not a thread behind. We are such stuff      
As dreams are made on, and our little life               
Is rounded with a sleep (except, of course, for MOAB,
For such sublime artistry goes on forever).

                      -- Ann H. Shakespeare, The Teapot, 1601.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 20 Jun 06 - 06:28 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 15 Jun 06 - 09:54 PM

For your edification, some poetry from Hector Bluwbalz, Plagarist Laureate of Corn Creek, Idaho. These are taken from his Uncollected Works (Boise: BDM Press, 2006)

There ain't nothin'
Like my breath
To send you miles away,
Or any poetry like mine
To make you waste a day.

                -- Hector Bluwbalz, My Poetry, 1994


Because I could not stop for Mom
She kindly stopped for me,
The threads held just two of us,
And Amos and Stilly and Bunn and Bee-Dubya-Ell and Tweed and Khandu and Peace and Little Hawk and Rapaire and just all sorts of other whackos.

                -- Hector Bluwbalz, Because, 2005

I heard a fly buzz as I died,
So I hit it a good smack
And I revived
'Cause no damn fly is gonna upstage my deathbed.

                -- Hector Bluwbalz, I heard a fly, 1988

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 27 Jun 06 - 01:12 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 27 Jun 06 - 12:22 PM

The evening and the day wore on,
Our lives were full of bother.
We posted when we had the time,
To our ever-bouyant Mother.
It was BS here, and BS there,
We'd not give up the ghost.
For we knew that somewhere down the road
Lay the Thirteen Thousandth Post.

Like the Grail of old, that number bold
Drew all our fevered dreaming
And if we let it fall to some drive-by cad,
We'd all be in for reaming.
We could hear the cheers and the bold halloos,
And the happy honoring toasts,
So we took the time to step once more
Toward the Thirteen Thousandth Post.

And if men died in far off lands,
And honor died betrayed,
And if we marched like Moses' band
Back into lives as slaves,
If virtue failed, and courage quailed,
And reason left for the coast,
Why, it's nothin' to us -- why raise a fuss?
Where's that Thirteen Thousandth Post?

Ephraim Symbolist, Jr.
Songs from an Empty Heart
Nihilist Pocket Books Press,
Greenwich Village, New York, 1947

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 17 Jul 06 - 01:38 PM

In response to Rapaire's concerns about the projected tearing off of the roof of his library:

A library without a roof
Is good -- it brings perspective
Enjoins the seekers after truth
From haughty, cold directives
And stays them from pretence, aloof
And condescending,

To walk among the whispers there
Of ages wise and good, while overhead
The local star goes by, and summer air
Reminds the scholars, looking up in dread
From curls of complex, mental snares
Into whose coils they have been led,
That life does not happily bless
The unbending.

And if, immersed in tides of facts
And paradox and half-moved arrows,
The scholar, rumbling in his tracks
Should be distracted by some sparrow
Or a humming bird's sudden attack
And finds the world had grown less narrow
And fields, more than fences, could use
Some mending.

This would not be a bad thing, in truth
I think I'd like to study there--
A hall of books without a roof,
Where dew can fall on students hair
Where stars can visit in the listening booths,
And winds can turn the leaves in pairs
And send the index cards awry, in a dance
Unending.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 12 Sep 06 - 03:12 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 12 Sep 06 - 03:09 PM

'Twas in the fall of ought-oh-six,
On a cool late summer's day
When MOABs fourteen-thousandth post
Was forty-five away
My true love came to me, did she
On kitten's feet to stand,
ANd laid her hand upon my arm,
And said won't it be grand?

Grand! Grand! It will be fourteen grand
And folks will bow their heads in awe,
From all across the land!
From the visions of the King Khandu
To Rapaire's most dext'rous hand
The children of MOAB will cheer,
When they reach fourteen grand.

And then another post was made
The gap was forty-four.
Re-post, riposte, gibe and assert,
They posted three times more.
And then a whim, and there a jest,
Came forth on every hand.
And Catters muttered east and west,
It's going to be grand!

Grand! Grand! It will be fourteen grand
And folks will bow their heads in awe,
From all across the land!
From the visions of the King Khandu
To Rapaire's most dext'rous hand
The children of MOAB will cheer,
When they reach fourteen grand.

Then came old Tweed, and Bunnhabain,
with several things to say,
And the gap went down to thirty-four
Before the end of day.
And still the posts came trickling in,
Like the glass' telling sand,
And soon the word spread far and wide,
"It's going to be grand!"

Grand! Grand! It will be fourteen grand
And folks will bow their heads in awe,
From all across the land!
From the visions of the King Khandu
To Rapaire's most dext'rous hand
The children of MOAB will cheer,
When they reach fourteen grand.

...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 08 Feb 07 - 07:46 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 08 Feb 07 - 06:48 PM

I can but say what I have said afore:
O! do not wish one more:         
Rather proclaim it, Amos, through my host,         
That he which hath no stomach to this celebration,         
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,         
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:         
We would not drink in that man's company         
That fears his fellowship to drink with us.         
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian:         
And Mom hath had her sixteen thousandth post,         
And we will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,         
And rouse the barkeep at the name of MOAB.         
He that shall survive this day, and see old age,         
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,         
And say, 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'         
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,         
And say, 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day
Celebrating Mom's sixteen thousandth post
When bottles emptied as if by magical means
And songs from a thousand throats were sung
And tho' this was long, long ago, I am hung over yet.'

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 08 Feb 07 - 07:52 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 07 Feb 07 - 06:46 PM

M is for the million things she gave me
O is for omniscience, which she are
A is for something or other just like those
B is for spending time down at the bar.

O is for omniscience, see above
U is for uric acid, which causes gout
R is for what happened: 'twas a rout.

M is for another million things she gave me
O is of omniscience, like I said
M is for another thing that begins with M

Put them all together they spell MOAB Our Mom
Except upper and lower case are rearranged.


             --Ode To MOM MOAB, by "Little" Richard
                Rogers and "Biggie" Hammersteins, 1913.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 07 Feb 07 - 04:06 PM

Lo, how the BS loud does rage,
Among the sleepy threads,
And draws the readers of the page
To shake their sleepy heads
How turley roond the tome doth grow,
How glissone goes its measure,
As on and up she boldly goes,
Where no man knows the pressure.
How stringly fired is her ween!
How glimly doon, her tripple!
Beneath the glumringed stars between,
A dampling, struttering stipple!
No lass in herbs can make her less
Nor lissome manny slattern,
For she has all our strove behest
And heaven's gandering pattern.
So come forth Une, Deus, Tray
And plaster thrice the wooly slab
For thou hast cantilevered Day
On the brow of proud MOAB!

g.g. thumbrings
Doonwich Porridge, New Yak, 1934

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 08 Feb 07 - 07:53 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: JennyO - PM
Date: 07 Feb 07 - 10:35 AM

Here's your cake, MOM! Bee-dubya-ell ordered it a week ago. And here's a Birthday Banner for you!

HAPPY SWEET SIXTEENTH BIRTHDAY, MOM!!!

And of course, your Birthday Song, also from Bee-dubya-ell -

*sings*

You're a thread from a dream
Your bullshit's supreme
A BS nukular bomb
You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're Mom

You're BS to our ear
It's you we revere
As other threads go and come
You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're Mom

       {Bridge}
       You're our MOAB, you're our thread
       We love you more than Wonderbread
       The mouse went "click", BS went "plop"
       When we started posting we could not stop

You appeared on the screens
Of our computin' machines
To BS we did succumb
You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're Mom
You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're Mom

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 12 Feb 07 - 02:37 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 12 Feb 07 - 02:35 PM

Pinwheeling numbers bring delight,
When the days are cold as night
Take such pleasures as ye choose,
If you're easily amused.

But for tougher, braver minds,
Here's a challenge -- go, and find
In the world of numbs' rhythm
The secret, lurking algorithm,

The law that every number feels,
That will make, of some, pinwheels?

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 12 Feb 07 - 04:15 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 12 Feb 07 - 03:24 PM

I love that Gluon is or is not there
Of blame for all my errors for to share;
I take delight, reflecting now that he
Thanks to primordial dark Uncertainty
Can take the blame of all I do wrong here,
Absorb it all, and lightly disappear.
Thus he confounds my critics all, and they
Who would about me harsh upbrading make
For in his glimmering, half-decided Being,
He shows that short exisiting is far seeing!
He serves the longer trail, the greater good,
And from him, lessons take, the others should.
To know that to be half-time in the Now
Gives double breadth and width of sight, somehow!
So do not haste to put the other shoe on!
Half shod, be half-way here, like Gluon!
Think twice for every half-thought offered here!
And like a duck-dog, become twice the seer!

Rumbilicus Sunderus Anew III,
Broken Phrases from the Wholest Heart
Meagre and Degradation, ed.
Jonestown, Guiana, 1982

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Georgiansilver
Date: 13 Feb 07 - 03:00 AM

Bearded Bruce has written a book,
On the Mudcat Cafe, take a look.
Fine lines of words that dare to rhyme,
The metre always there in time.
The volume I could not hope to match,
But ideas I can surely hatch.
But my words surely you can see,
Cannot match Bruces quality.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 13 Feb 07 - 09:25 AM

He's mainly putting up the work of many others,
Much of it borrowed from our Mother!
In mining such rich veins, he's wise --
Mom loves to be anthologized!

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 09:23 AM

RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 08 Mar 07 - 11:17 PM

A pox on those who better know
Than letting Mother drift so low,
Those spirits bright with hands of skill
Who have the wit but lack the will!
And those who sometimes take on airs
And say that others do not care
And those whose lives are left to coast
And borrow other's words to post.
Those Murphys, Flynns, and lowly Flanagans
Who pester Mom with such shenanigans
Are not deserving, by my lights,
To call themselves proud MOABites
And I am certain taht 't is true
That should the noble King Khandu
Discover now what dross has grown
Around the MOAB's soaring stones,
What damp has muffled now her drum,
And to what fate poor Mom has come,
I'm certain he would lose his head,
ANd maybe start another thread!
Then where would we be? Where would we write?
What would we do, alone at night?
I prithee, therefore, mend your ways,
And surface from your sleepy daze,
And write BS, both good and fair
To show the MOAB that you care;
Post once, post twice! And do not stop,
Until our Mom is back on top!

Winsfield Gathering-Hays III,
Ruminations on Transcendent Truth Amongst Friends
Penny-Dreadful Literary House
Cocksbane-by-Gender, 1937

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 09:24 AM

RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 09:22 AM

Time will pass, but will not tell,
What goes on with BWL.
In his quiet moments brooding,
No demands of life intruding,
Shall he bring forth revelations?
Poems or tales, or condemnations?
Times he heard old Spawser flatulate?
Diatribes on objects spatulate?
Perhaps he will, perhaps he'll not
Perhaps his brain's now gone to pot.
But only time will pass and tell,
In any case we wish him well,
The silent MOABite, B.L.

Gordon Rumsey McKinney McAlistair Dunedin Fifer IV,
Scotty Doggerel: Kilt's Secrets and Highland Ballads
Whett, Macintosh, Inverain
Edinborough, 2004
A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 10:02 AM

RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 10:00 AM

Come all you bad rounders
And listen to me,
And I'll sing you the ballad
Of Bold Raparee
A gentleman sober,
A terror when full,
An erudite scholar,
And handy with bull.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

A man of great knowledge
Was this erudite cat,
From Dewey to Doctorow,
He had them down pat
He could send you long sections
Of Greeks from the shelf,
Tho' he'd often let on
He'd composed them himself!

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

He'd a good wife and family
And brothers most fond
And friends in the Legion,
And over the pond
But he was not contented,
And the story is sad,
For his one aspiration
Was to truly Be Bad!

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

He forsook all his learning
And his Library post
And from honest man's earnings
He gave up the ghost,
He went to his Mother
To learn how to sin,
And the answer she gave him
Made his poor brain to spin.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

She told him quite plainly
"Don't act so perplexed!
For the problem is just
That you get no respect!
You're growing a tummy,
And losing your mane
And the folks down at MOAB
Will just cause you pain."

But if you will listen,
And take this advice
We can make you a Monster
In half of a trice!"
"Go log on to iTunes
Where they sell MP3s
And find you some old ones
From Crofut's LPs.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

And if you are lucky
As you snoop around
You'll discover the story
Of Bad Leroi Brown."
Now sharpen your pencil
And listen quite well,
And you soon will become
The librarian from hell."

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

This bold man of books
Took good Counsel from Ma
And he swore he would soon live
Outside of the law.
He got him a razor,
110 volts A.C.,
Shoved it into his Weejums
Which were 10 triple-E.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

Then he went to a gun fair
To follow his fate
And he brought back a carload
Of monstrous weight
There were handguns and air-guns
Both stainless and blued
Though he limped when he'd heft 'em
From the Braun in his shoe.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

But in spite of the pain,
He did strut up and down
Saying "I'll be the baddest
Librarian in town!"
So he strapped on the iron
Just hoping for fun;
But it took him two hours
To pack thirty-eight guns

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

And the weight of those weapons
Forced his pants to the floor
And he cursed and he cried
And he sweated and swore
Then he found his solution!
It made his heart dance!
He bought eight pairs of braces
Clipped all 'round his pants.

And it's hands on your sheathes lads,
And keep the blades free,
On your guard for a visit
From Bold Raparee!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 10:29 AM

and, of course, the Psalm-like

RE: BS: What makes you choose a thread
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 07 Mar 07 - 09:10 AM

I only post to threads to which Amos has posted first.

Amos is my beacon, my guiding light,
the lighthouse which prevents me from crashing upon the rocks and shoals,
my leader, my hope, the star by which I navigate.
There is no one like Amos,
who watches over me and insures
that I follow in the Paths of Righteousness and Goodness
all the days of my life.

Either that or the thread must be interesting. I'm not all that interested in topics like "The US Being Awful To Iraqis" or "Bush Is A Lying Wuss" or "The US, UK, EU and Canada Suck Ditch Water and the Aussies Stink Too."

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 11:18 AM

It's a good thing Rapaire does not speak with forked tongue -- it would poke a hole right through his cheek.


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 11:40 AM

Amos et al,

Let me repeat:

"sorry, editing is extra. I try not to make value judgements about your work... "

8-{E

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 12:27 PM

LOL! I guess I am grateful!! :D
\

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: IWTATBM
Date: 09 Mar 07 - 04:58 PM

It's nice to know that Mudcat's there,
When you life's a mess, no one to care,
The boss may scorn you, wish you were dead,
But at home you've got your favourite thread.


© IWTATBM FFP 2007

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 20 Mar 07 - 07:25 AM

RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 19 Mar 07 - 09:47 PM

MOAB Post #1: From: khandu 05 May 03 - 08:31 PM
MOAB Post # 1000: From: Noreen - 26 Aug 03 - 09:37 AM
MOAB Post @ 2000:From: GUEST,William Shatner 22 Jan 04 - 06:34 PM

                               ODE TO THE MOAB UPON ITS 2000TH POST

When MOAB reached its thousandth post
I wrote a pome, said 'twas the most
That any thread had ever had
It warn't too shabby, not too bad.

It now has that thousand times two.
'Cause some folks don't have shit to do
'Cept shoot the breeze and waste their times
With foolishness and goofy rhymes.

Yes, MOAB it continues on.
The Goddammed thing just won't be gone!
A dream from which we cannot wake,
A never-ending stomachache.

It now looks like it may be true
That this thread never will be through!
So, what the hell? Don't buck the tide.
Just grab yer nuts* and enjoy the ride!

From BWL


MOAB Post #3000: From: Amos 05 May 04 - 10:35 AM
MOAB Post #4000: From: Amos - 22 Jul 04 - 08:20 PM
MOAB Post #6000 GUEST,heric 03 Feb 05 - 10:16 AM
MOAB Post # 7000 From: Stilly River Sage 25 Mar 05 - 10:26 AM

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 20 Mar 07 - 08:40 AM

Just because truth is fun to tell,
I'll tell it here, and tell it well,
That poem was by
BWL.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 20 Mar 07 - 01:47 PM

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

At sixteen thousand six-nine-seven letters
I'd like to say the MOAB still grows better.
I'd like to sing the praises of her station --
The charm, the grace, the canny peroration.
That wiser grow, and wiser growing still,
Surmount all hurdles of the world and will.

I'd like to hymn her beauty and her grace --
The light she brings to every reader's face.
How fine, to praise the rhyhm and the temper
That makes each Son of Mom swear, "Semper!
Semper Fi! We pledge our souls to you!"
I'd like to write such paeans -- as would you!

But sadly, none of it is true.

Obi Whachu Wannabe, Syrius XI Planetary Laureate

Starview Publishining, Ether Editions Press
Glimmer City, 4345

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 27 Mar 07 - 05:08 PM

I think ole BB missed one.


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: GUEST,sinky
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 06:48 AM

i long to be a mudcat a flapping on the shore
then i wont need to see a morris dancer anymore
shaking his bells wildly and dancing like a prat
id like to take his stick and give him such a bat
when will these silly people give up this silly dance
id love to be a mudcat and bugger off to france

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 10:16 AM

Amos,

A good poem, BUT not about Mudcat.

Sorry- I saw it and rejected it for this thread.

But feel free, if you must...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:06 PM

RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 03:08 PM

As cruced yee Sonne across the towering Skye
To myne companions bolde I sayde, sayde I,
"Gude friendes, for Jesu' sake, then strive,
For wee are at syxtene and saevin-nynety-five!

"And fayne I woulde Oure Mothere Fayre uplift,
Ande unto Herre bestow the rairest Gyfte,
By gentle Spyryte and bye Helpin Hande,
To bring herre to Ye Seyventeen of Grande!"

Up spayke the Knighte, the bold Rapaire Yclept,
And said, "The land arounde I have beSwepte!
No Ennemie nor Hurdle lurketh there!"
And so assured us alle, Ye Bold Rapaire.

And thene stept Upp ye tender maiden Stilly,
Who blushing sayde, "An it does note Sounde Sillye,
I wille Myselfe to show here Any Manne,
That I in postes Out Number alle canne."

Thene chimed up Mario, a Manne of Emms,
Who well-reknownd was for Verse and Phlegm,
Ande kindly sayde, "Goode lasse, Bee note afrayde!"
Ande att her Feete, hise Posting Swourd he layde.


(These lines are all that remain of a much large parchment found in water-stained decomposed condition in an excavation recently performed at Outeback-under-Bog, a small village in Northwest Birdsex.)

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:23 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:21 PM

Speaketh up Sir Amos bolde
Stronge his arm and axillae withalle
Sir Amos who with grontes golde
Did sore ycled and yield trallalle!
Sayethe he This doth become
Naughte butte a way to theel and thum
All dawn til duske doth beate a drumme
And I hath feeleth mickle dum!
Nonne answerd him nonne to he spok
Yet perchance a yonge afrited byrd
Didst gyre and snatche a frogge to croke
And swiven swan untille it broke!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:24 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:23 PM

That was from the Albert Greathouse Manuscript, what is left of it.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:37 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:35 PM

And wytha flaire, he cryed, for alle to see,
"Now do wee alle sixteene-aight hunnert Bee!"


A


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 28 Mar 07 - 04:33 PM

"Then cryeed the Knight, "Nowe, bye mye bottle,
I do confesse I am an Axolotl!
Yea, 'tis truth, 'tis truth,
An ever I woulde speake ye sooth,
An vow I to you alle, I shalle not pander
In praying to become ye Saleamander."

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 01 Apr 07 - 02:20 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: JennyO - PM
Date: 01 Apr 07 - 06:52 AM

Before we reach the Seventeen Kay,
Another number, if I may,
Is looming still within my sights,
And should be mine before three nights.

I speak of course of one which spins,
And as it ends, so it begins.
At sixteen eight and ninety one,
My pinwheel number will be won.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Post - Top - Forum Home - Printer Friendly - Translate
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 01 Apr 07 - 12:21 AM

Now neighbors all, I prithee see
Sixteen and Eight and Fifty Three
Of posts we merry lot have made
So onward, to Seventeen Kay!

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 01:54 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 01:34 PM

Now 16, eight and seventy
Have spoke the MOAB path
With gallant epic ditty,
And heartfelt jolly laughs.
If eight and seventy do appear
To please our Mother's Mind
With Spring upon the MOAB can
The Nine be far behind?
And if the Nine should soon appear,
Brave Sixteen Thousand Nine,
How long before Seventeen Grand
Shall Cross the MOAB line?
And shall we then all celebrate
And hymn and drink and wail?
To see that Seventeen Thousandth Post
Stand tall on MOAB's trail?
Oh, let it be, that thee, and me
And all of MOAB's clan
May bring the day to come about
Our Seventeen of Grand!

Paisley Winnebago
Milestones on the Short Trail

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 03:42 PM

I am simply crushed. The Epic Sage of Sir Amos was not chosen for anthologization on this thread. I think I shall go slash my wrists or have a Budweiser, one or the other but not both.

Crushed...ground into the dirt like the worker beneath the iron heel of the Capitalist Exploiter of the Laboring Class!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 03:46 PM

Not about Mudcat, or a thread- just about a Mudcatter.


But YOU may post it if you wish- there is NO censorship here.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 03:47 PM

30 Apr 05 - 09:41 AM (#1474950)
Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos

The MOABite ran like a wolf to the fold
And their numbers were drooling and laughing, and old
In the pale purple dawn, at the rise of the hill
They stood in array, and they laughed soft and shrill.
Their horses cavorted, their trumpets were gold
And they sang out "BS"! in the damp and the cold.

Then each one to his stirrups, to each his épée
And they swung to their saddles, and galloped toward day,
With the screams of the dying rattling over the plain
The MOABites struck, struck again, struck again.
That was long long ago, as the elders recall,
Who were there and who saw it, and remember it all.

It was cognitive madness, a mind's paroxysm
Not one gal was sure what was hers, or was his'n.
On that plain stands today just a cold granite marker,
To remember the day when the MOAB went starker
In cool quiet letters, the stone doth profess:
"On this hill, at one time, there was first-class BS."

Merriwether Longjaw Stooling
Songs of the MOAB
Brown and Ridickledockle, New York, 1947

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 08:41 PM

No, it's too late. I've found that I don't have any Budweiser and all the knives are too dull. I think I'll live myself to death, and it'll be all YOUR fault.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 08:52 PM

Rapire:

You should file a protest. BB has changed his horses midstream and walloped his cod to a different drummer.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 09:42 PM

No, my death will be upon his head. He will have to live with the guilt of forcing me to live to death. He will go about pouring ashes upon his head, wearing sackcloth, and crying, "Oalloo! The brave Rapaire is slain because of me! I made him live to death!" and people will turn their faces from him and he will have A Mark upon him. Honey will be sour in his mouth, and wine will not comfort him. Finally his guilt will force him into desert places and amongst thorns and he will be heard of no more.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 02 Apr 07 - 11:09 PM

Well, if you think so, Rapaire. I kinda doubt it myself.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 06:58 AM

So do I.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Rapparee
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 09:02 AM

Well, yeah, so do I. But ya gotta be dramatic to give life a little flavor, right?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 09:03 AM

I prefer chocolate or ginger to drama...

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 09:49 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: JennyO - PM
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 09:47 AM

***** 16891 *****

My pinwheel number's time has come,
Here's sixteen eight and ninety one.
Well balanced, viewed from up or down,
A little jewel for Mother's crown.

I turn it round, it slowly spins,
A germ of an idea begins.
Harness its power, that's my plan,
To use it as a personal fan.

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 10:44 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 10:42 AM

Turning and turning in the widening thunder
The counter cannot hear the passing number.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
A flood of bull is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed mind unreels, and everywhere
The innocence of apathy put down;
The best bring forth pure Bull, while the rest
Contrive in passionless mediocrity.

Surely some renaissance is now at hand;
Surely revival reaches toward the land.
BS Revival! Words no sooner spoke,
When a vast image out of some Cosmic Joke
Troubles my sight: somewhere in burning desert stress
A shape with lion head but not the heart of man,
A gaze blank and pitiless, decries BS,
Denies the Will and Wit, because it Can.

Reel shadows of the fleeing carrion birds.
The darkness breaks and stagger; and now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Are brought from nightmare by the MOAB's cradle,
And what bright hope, its hour come round at last,
Clicks on a blicky, ready to be born?

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 01:33 PM

I must intercede; it is not to be borne that so bold and bright a voice as our own Senior Librarian Rapaire should not have his Epic Worke included in this humble anthology. Therefore at uncountable risk, I offer it below for those who do not venture into MOAB Landia:

The Absolutely Fantastic Adventure of Brave Sir Amos, Knight of the Table Round and Sans Pur et Sans Reproache

Amidst the angst of battle sound
Brave Sir Amos would be found,
Round him bodies steeped in gore
Men who'd never breath no more.
Cloven skulls and pierced hearts
Guts outside their inside parts
Legs and arms all scattered 'round
Scarlet plumes and trousers browned
Gouts of blood and bits of brains
Brave Sir Amos faced the trains
Of Celt and Pict and Saxon foe
Free to trade them blow for blow
Iberian, Banjoist and Basque
But fell Sir Amos to his task!
Slaughtered he the serried rank
And armed file. Until a tank
Lumbered fast into his sight
He quaked, but did not take his flight
For overhead, above the foe
An A-10 Warthog struck a blow
All liveried in puce and orange

The dragon did its mouth agape
The brave Sir Amos to entape
With its tongue, all slimy spit
Envenomed like the Devil's pit!
But brave Sir Amos stood his ground
Amidst the flames that danced around
His armor pure, but slightly scorched
By dragon's breath and forward marched
E'en unto the dragons head
And hacked it off and then he said
"Fair maiden I you this present
As token of my pure intent."
She cried, she shrieked, away did faint,
Her visage fair did look like paint
Of palest hue or whitewash pure
But her lips of crimson quite a lure
And brave Sir Amos kissed these
Again and again, like tasting cheese,
He could could nay stop, he could nay quit,
'Til damsel woke and took a fit
"Oh evil one, who my virtue took,
Now do the Right Thing, by The Book!
Now marry me within the month,
Or Daddy's gonna

Headstood he in blasted wood
Knowing that he did no good
To his insides or to his head
So got he to his feet instead
And like the good and parfait knight
He was he thought his hair a fright
So sprang he to his noble steed
Knowing that a comb he'd need
Ere he could to table come
And drink and eat and pound the drum-
Like table with the other knights
And drink, carouse, and get in fights
Until the rosy daybreak came
Bringing o'erindulgence's bane
Calling like the other louts
For aspirin, silence, patience, clouts
For those so much dropped a pin
And death to those who did more sin!
Searched for a comb he high and low
Here and there, above, below,
In and out, around and through,
On stormy sea, in morning dew,
On mountain high, in valley low,
In castle, keep, and bungalow!
And then one day he did espy
A comb that really caught his eye!
Bejeweled it was, in platinum set
Its very teeth as black as jet!
Its rattail of Einsteinium

Cried he, "Villein! Hold thy pen!
Don't write no more such stuff again!
Else I will have to take thy head,
Arms and legs, table and bed,
I'll break thy lance, I'll break thy sword,
I'll take thy dictionary, every word!
For I do not fear the wrath of men
Especially those who wield the pen!"
So drew he Fishmash, his noble blade,
And chased the poet 'round the glade,
'Til finally the poet slipped on the dew
And Sir Amos clove him quite in two!
"Egad!" quoth he. "What have I done?"
Now poets two instead of one
Shall loudly my details proclaim!"
And so he hacked the chap again
Until the poet mincemeat was
And with sound of flies the glade did buzz.
Then Sir Amos wiped from his blade the gore
Of the poet who would nevermore
Write of his deeds, both bad and good
Within the overarching wood
Of trees and shrubs and birds and deer,
Giants, orcs, and old King Lear,
Glaciers, palms, and pilgrims lost,
And danger to the permafrost.
Fair maidens everywhere did weep
And publicans did half their keep
Of nut-brown ale and whisky strong
And with flooding tears did the sums erase
That the poet owed, for now decease
He ne'er more could even up the score
Five pubs went broke and even more
Did ban Sir Amos for this deed
And the publicans spent their lives in need.
In rags their children went to school
In summer's heat and winter's cool
And in future times whenever they
Spoke to grandchild, fair or fey,
Of their youth, how in school they stay
(Tho' they walked uphill both the way
Through snow and ice up to their chest
Their education was the best)
They told of how Sir Amos, brave,
Did them to poverty enslave
By mincing the poet, head and knee,
Who was yclepted "Rapaire."

Exeunt Omnes

Here endeth The Absolutely Fantastic Adventure of Brave Sir Amos, Knight of the Table Round and Sans Pur et Sans Reproache.

---

Ya gotta give the dude credit for perseverance.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 01:36 PM

The foregoing was a response to this Faustian epic which favors the conniving dexterity of Rapaire himself:

John-Boy Faustus, on a dare,
Made a deal with Big Rapaire
He'd withstand ole Satan's rant,
But Rapaire laughed, "Betcha can't!"

Rapaire said, with evil chortle,
"Secret words make men immortal!"
"Bring them wisdom, deep, all-seeing!"
"Going weeks not even peeing!"

John-Boy said, "Let's rock an' roll!
I'll start with one eternal soul!"
Satan thought 'twas pretty cool
To watch Rapaire draw out the fool.

He agreed with Rapaire's scam,
Said "Only you could flim this flam!"
Soon, ole John Boy had a deal,
Wisdom made his pore head reel!

He kissed Helen, late of Troy,
Overwhelmed was pore John Boy.
Endless rows of winsome bitches,
Endless insight, endless riches!

All the world lay at his toeses
He was wiser, then, than Moses!
Lined the ladies up and kissed 'em
Overloaded nervous system.

Soon his brain became eroded,
John-Boy's human mind exploded!
He became a German scandal,
More than one poor soul could handle.

Thrashed with pure nervous exhaustion,
Wished he'd acted with more caution.
Satan said, "You've earned your pay!"
Swept ole John Boy's soul away.

Gave Rapaire a bunch of ducats,
"Hell, the dough is free, so fuck it!"
"I'm above life on the level,
Why not grab dough from the Devil?"

Ole Rapaire felt rich and mellow,
Bought a home in Pocatello,
Some say he's an awful jerk,
For doing Satan's dirty work.

But Rapaire, with mien contrarian,
Says "I am but a librarian!"
"I do research through the mazes,
Digging long-lost magic phrases!"

"Who are you to give a fuck,
If I turn an extra buck?"
Not withstanding this rebuttal,
Locals planned his style to scuttle.

Planned and plotted, girl and fellow,
In the dark, in Pocatello,
'Til at last they brought him down
For plagiarizing Ezra Pound.

No more devil's gold he's spending
No more magic words he's lending.
No more ancient beauties kissing.
Gone mysteriously missing!

Dropped inside the penal schism
Doing time for plagiarism!
Stranger, pause, and say a prayer
For the soul of our Rapaire.

Wallace Beerbohm Sturgeon
Lost Tales of the Legionaires
Infinite Loop Press
Cupertino, 2001

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 01:47 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 01:22 PM

We were 16-8 and ninety-eight
Just two from sixteen-nine.
And the loom of seventeen thousand
Was seen down past the line.
Then with vicious broomstick waved aloft,
We heard our Mother say,
"Git out of bed, you worthless slouch!
Move out! There's seventeen K!"

So we rubbed our eyes, and looked around,
And fell into our clothes.
And out the window, over the hill,
Where the sun had lately rose,
Why sure enough, a bright gold glow,
Like the start of a second day
Was brightening up the clouds below,
The glow of Seventeen K.

We could see it shine like Gabriel's Horn,
Where the heavens meet the dawn.
And we swore our eyes were playing tricks,
And blinked; but it wasn't gone.
And all that morning it glittered there,
Like an angel hard at play.
And we knew in our hearts, we had better start
Moving out for Seventeen K.

Now somewhere men are stern and glum,
Where there burdens are too grim.
Somewhere a man turn his back on life,
'Cuz it's just too much for him.
And somewhere folks can't understand
Why children laugh, and play.
But the MOAB crew understand that, too,
As they head for Seventeen K.

We know it's there, just over the hill
If you look right, it's quite clear,
Like the pale green flash on the ocean's back
When the setting sun draws near.
So just keep your calm, if the sons of Mom
Gallop past, berserk but gay,
And give them a smile as they make that mile
That will bring on Seventteen K.

Ransom Arbuthnot Stumpwhumper
The Voice from Over the Hill
Olden, Yuppiz, Revivivien, eds.
New York City, 2004

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 01:48 PM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 01:37 PM

In Time's sands, now draw a line.
Draw it straight, and clean, and fine.
MOAB has reached Sixteen-Nine!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Bee
Date: 03 Apr 07 - 02:21 PM

On numbers great they frown and mumble
Posting frantic lines in haste
Fearing not the bandwidth grumble
Nor yet their sunless pasty state
The keys resound with fev'rish clicks
The glowing port before them shines
No hesitation must let stick
The posting of yet ten more lines
Without their chambers dim and dusty
Sound the cries of lonely mates
"Once my lass was warm and lusty!"
"Once my lad took me on dates!"
"Not yet, my lass, my lad!" they cry
That Great Big Number lies ahead!
I'll just post once more 'fore I slumber,
Just take the cat for warmth to bed!"

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 04 Apr 07 - 11:39 AM

The following exhortation was inspired by our own Rapaire, and therefore qualifies for anthologisation herein:

I left my parents' homestead
"Succeed!" they did often me tell.
And little did I think I would shame them
By the cruel fate, that then me befell.

I wandered from city to sity,
Endeavouring my talents to sell,
But my efforts did fail, and at the end of my trail,
I'm only a poor ne'er-do-well.

I'm only a poor ne'er-do-well.
I'm only a poor ne'er-do-well.
At the end of the line, I look 'round me and find,
I'm only a poor ne'er-do-well.

So I wandered to far distant regions,
I hoped to leave shame far behind,
'Neath the Idaho stars, in the cheapest of bars
With worry my poor face is lined.

I cannot reach Upper CLass Heaven,
Not even Middle Class Hell,
I'm afraid in my time, I will turn next to crime,
As a nefarious ne'er-do-well

A nefarious ne'er-do-well!
A nefarious ne'er-do-well!
I have fallen so low, to my fate I must go,
As a nefarious ne'er-do-well!

So come, all you lads from the city
And may your endeavours be blessed,
Take a lesson from me,
No ne'er-do-well be!
Go become a nefarious success!

Become a nefarious success!
Become a nefarious success!
Take a lesson from me,
No ne'er-do-well be!
Go become a nefarious success!


Gobsahve Luce Spiddle
Spray When You Sing!
Misunderstood Revelations Press, Saskatchewan 1954

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 10:12 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 04 Apr 07 - 08:17 PM

Do not fret if Mom sinks down.
Toward the shadowy part of town,
When the darkness breeds dark fear,
And the threads all disappear!
We can bring her back again,
With a click, if we've a yen,
And to make it better, men,
Now she's sixteen-nine and ten!


A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 10:13 AM

Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Amos - PM
Date: 04 Apr 07 - 11:37 PM

Rag-tag, bobtail, desperate rhyming,
Pie-eyed rhythm, wall-eyed timing
Helter-skelter, bouncing daily
As the number slip by gaily
While the non-plussed watchers pray,
nine-thirteen, and sixteen K.


A


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Stilly River Sage - PM
Date: 04 Apr 07 - 11:24 PM

Sixteen nine and twelve is she,
Such poetry we should shelve, hehe


Subject: RE: BS: The Mother of all BS threads
From: Rapaire - PM
Date: 04 Apr 07 - 09:05 PM

And resurrected by diggin' and delvin'
She's now at sixteen nine and eleven!

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 10:29 AM

Amos,

"The following exhortation was inspired by our own Rapaire, and therefore qualifies for anthologisation herein:"

The weakness of this arguement is that my ( last/former) muse has been known to get on Mudcat, and has a member's name- Do I therefore post ALL the sonnets I wrote to her her?

I think not, and I suspect you ( the amorphous group) would prefer it that way.

8-{E

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: Amos
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 10:44 AM

Well, Bruce, I yield to your discrimination since this is your thread, really; but the characterof Rapaire is of course iconic within the context of the MOAB, and the MOAB is iconic within the context of the Mudcat. So the case is a bit different. Regardless, it may be the kind of difference that a prudent judge or editor can not give cognizance to.

A

Subject: RE: BS: Poetry about Mudcat
From: beardedbruce
Date: 05 Apr 07 - 10:53 AM

" since this is your thread, really;"

Not really. Having started this thread, I have an interest in keeping it alive, but it is not my personnal fiefdom- it is for ALL here who wish to contribute to: I have no veto power, nor do I want any- I was just explaining why *** I *** did not copy that particular poem over from the other thread. I leave it to others to decide what MUST or MUST NOT be included- I use MY judgement as to what ** I ** post here.

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

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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: Amos
Date: 27 Jun 07 - 03:45 PM

201!


A

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: 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: 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: 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: 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: Rapparee
Date: 19 Jul 07 - 10:50 PM

For just a bit of doggerell?

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: 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: 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: 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: 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: Lonesome EJ
Date: 21 Sep 07 - 05:16 PM

Gosh I'm good.

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: 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 - 07:03 PM

Yow! The woman can turn a phrase!

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: 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: 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 - 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: 22 Sep 07 - 11:42 AM

And perhaps half boiled! :D

Thanks, man!


A

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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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: 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 - 11:55 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: 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 - 04:35 PM

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


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: 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: 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!"