Some of the many folks: Annie03; AntiBurr; Baby Bear; BJClinton; BlackbirdSST; BroncosFan; Capitalism2003; dAnconia; AAABEST; A.J.Armitage; archy ;austingirl ; BADROTOFINGER; RonPaulLives; Wolfie; Bones75; do not dup me shapka broham; eno_; Publius Scipio; bassmaner; thoughtomator; headsonpikes; Know your rights; Hemingway's Ghost; pageonetoo; mysterio; tacticalogic; bird4four4; LeGrande; WindOracle; Vigilantcitizen; Baseballguy; Beck_isright; Jack Black; blanknoone; bootless; claidheamh mor; Capitalism2003; Cathryn Crawford; CSM; dcwusmc; EBUCK; Esjay; exodus; feinswinesuksass; ForOurFuture; Galatians513; gnarled maw; grizzfan; harrowup (though he's an admitted liberal); imacatfish; jmc813; JohnGalt; JustAmy; kancel; Katya; katz; Kwilliams; Landru; Lazamataz; markcowboy; Travis McGee; t_skoz; mvpel; neverdem; newt; nunya bidness; Old_Grouch; ovrtaxt; PatrickHenry (especially edifying on logic and creationism/evolution issues); pocat; King Prout; pupdog; rattrap; Read JDM; GOPcapitalist and libertyman; (two fine pro-Southerners);Reagan Renaissance; Rennes Templar; Sir Francis Dashwood; Rowdee (though far more antiwar than I);Semaphore Heathcliffe; sheltonmac (though a bit too antiwar for me); Solitar; Sparta; stainlessbanner; steve-b (that is one sarcastic bastard); steve50; StriperSniper; Squantos; sweet_diane; Taxman; TCEF; teeman8r; Tinamina; u-89; spatzie; warmath; watcher1; WestPacSailor; WhiteGuy; Xenalyte; Nea Wood; Paul C. Jesup; DAnconia55; LeGrande; brazzaville; CzarNicky; Blood of Tyrants; Hank Rearden; Hildy; Ed Current; MRMEAN; Sabretooth; Servant of the 9; Orson Scott Card; MrLeRoy; KantianBurke; El Gato; Protagoras; gcruse; Willie Green (though he's a bit too protectionist at times, perhaps); The Honorable Ron Paul (though he's sometimes a little underappreciative of national security concerns); Christopher Hitchens, Ted Rall (though he's a crackhead liberal, it's always good to keep one on the reading list to stay apprised of the opposition's "arguments"), Neal Boortz, Thomas Sowell, Walter Williams, Joseph Sobran, Caesar, Christopher Moore, Christopher Buckley, William F. Buckley, Mark Steyn, Homer, Cato (both on and off FR :), and of course,

Grampa Jack

(you'll find him at jpfo.org)

---

POETRY I LIKE

It rhymes, so it's real poetry. It doesn't rhyme, it's prose. Any idget can talk without rhyming. It takes a wordsmith to tell a story to a certain format, including poetry.

Abou Ben Adhem (by Leigh Hunt)

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold.
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?'
The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered 'The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said 'I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.'

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names who love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

The Landlord's Tale (by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light, --
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade, --
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay, --
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! As he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled, --
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm, --
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Brother Jonathan's Lament for Sister Caroline (by Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.)

She has gone -- she has left us in passion and pride, --
Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side!
She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow,
And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
We can never forget that our hearts have been one, --
Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name,
From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch;
But we said: "She is hasty, -- she does not mean much."
We have scowled when you uttered some turbulent threat;
But Friendship still whispered: "Forgive and forget!"

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold?
Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold?
Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain
That her petulant children would sever in vain.

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, --
Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil,
Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their caves,
And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:

In vain is the strife! When its fury is past,
Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last,
As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow
Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky;
Man breaks not the medal when God cuts the die!
Though darkened with sulfur, though cloven with steel,
The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!

O Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun,
There are battles with Fate that can never be won!
The star-flowering banner must never be furled,
For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!

Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof, --
Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof;
But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore,
Remember the pathway that leads to our door!

Farewell to Brother Jonathan (by Caroline)

Farewell! we must part; we have turned from the land
Of our cold-hearted brother, with tyrannous hand,
Who assumed all our rights as a favor to grant,
And whose smile ever covered the sting of a taunt;

Who breathed on the fame he was bound to defend,--
Still the craftiest foe, 'neath the guise of a friend;
Who believed that our bosoms would bleed at a touch,
Yet could never believe he could goad them too much;

Whose conscience affects to be seared with our sin,
Yet is plastic to take all its benefits in;
The mote in our eye so enormous has grown,
That he never perceives there's a beam in his own.

O, Jonathan, Jonathan! vassal of pelf,
Self-righteous, self-glorious, yes, every inch self,
Your loyalty now is all bluster and boast,
But was dumb when the foemen invaded our coast.

In vain did your country appeal to you then,
You coldly refused her your money and men;
Your trade interrupted, you slunk from her wars,
And preferred British gold to the Stripes and the Stars!

Then our generous blood was as water poured forth,
And the sons of the South were the shields of the North;
Nor our patriot ardor one moment gave o'er,
Till the foe you had fed we had driven from the shore!

Long years we have suffered opprobrium and wrong,
But we clung to your side with affection so strong,
That at last, in mere wanton aggression, you broke
All the ties of our hearts with one murderous stroke.

We are tired of contest for what is our own,
We are sick of a strife that could never be done;
Thus our love has died out, and its altars are dark,
Not Prometheus's self could rekindle the spark.

O Jonathan, Jonathan! deadly the sin
Of your tigerish thirst for the blood of your kin;
And shameful the spirit that gloats over wives
And maidens despoiled of their honor and lives!

Your palaces rise from the fruits of our toil.
Your millions are fed from the wealth of our soil;
The balm of our air brings the health to your cheek,
And our hearts are aglow with the welcome we speak.

O brother! beware how you seek us again,
Lest you brand on your forehead the signet of Cain;
That blood and that crime on your conscience must sit;
We may fall--we may perish--but never submit!

The pathway that leads to the Pharisee's door
We remember, indeed, but we tread it no more;
Preferring to turn, with the Publican's faith,
To the path through the valley and shadow of death!

Tommy (by Rudyard Kipling)

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

The Toast of Morgan's Men (by Captain Thorpe, Ky.)

Unclaimed by the land that bore us,
Lost in the land, we find
The brave have gone before us;
Cowards are left behind.
Then stand to your glasses, steady;
Here's a health to those we prize.
Here's a toast to the dead already,
And here's to the next who dies.

The Charge Of The Light Brigade (by Alfred Lord Tennyson)

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

The Road Not Taken (by Robert Frost)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

The Star-Spangled Banner (by Francis Scott Key)

Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight'
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming.
And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
Oh, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore dimly seen, thro' the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream;
'Tis the star-spangled banner: oh, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footstep's pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave,
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

Oh, thus be it ever when free men shall stand,
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation;
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Power that has made and preserved us as a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust";
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

A Job for McGuinness (by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson)

Oh, it's dreadful to think in a country like this
With its chances for work - and enjoyment
That a man like McGuinness was certain to miss
Whenever he tried for employment.

He wrote to employers from Bondi to Bourke,
From Woolloomooloo to Glen Innes,
But he found - though his wife could get plenty of work -
There was never a job for McGuinness.

But perhaps - later on - when the Chow and the Jap
Begin to drift down from the tropics,
When a big yellow stain spreading over the map
Provides some disquieting topics,

Oh, it's then when they're wanting a man that will stand
In the trench where his own kith and kin is,
With a frown on his face and a gun in his hand -
Then there might be a job for McGuinness!

Clancy of the Overflow (by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson)

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city,
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the 'buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".

Waltzing Matilda (by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson)

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah tree,
And he sang as he watch'd and waited till his billy boiled,
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda,
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me,
And he sang as he watch'd and waited till his billy boiled,
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came a jumbuck to drink at that billabong,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee,
And he sang as he shoved that jumback in his tucker bag,
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.

Up rode the squatter mounted on his thoroughbred,
Down came the troopers, one, two, three,
Whose that jolly jumbuck you've got in your tucker bag?
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.

Up jumped the swagman, sprang into the billabong,
You'll never catch me alive said he,
And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong,
You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me.

The Man from Snowy River (by Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson)

Was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from Old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses -- he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up --
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony -- three parts thoroughbred at least --
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry -- just the sort that won't say die --
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, "That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop -- lad, you'd better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.
"So he waited sad and wistful -- only Clancy stood his friend --
"I think we ought to let him come," he said;
"I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred."

"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."

So he went -- they found the horses by the big mimosa clump --
They raced away towards the mountain's brow,
And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills."

So Clancy rode to wheel them -- he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.

And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.
"When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.

But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat --
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Ain't Nobody's Business If I Do (by Porter Grainger and Everett Robbins)

There ain't nothin' I can do, nor nothin' I can say,
That folks don't criticize me.
But I'm gonna do just as I want to anyway,
I don't care if they all despise me.
If I should take a notion
To jump into the ocean,
It ain't nobody's business if I do.

Rather than persecute me,
I choose that you would shoot me,
It ain't nobody's business if I do.
If I should get the feelin'
To dance upon the ceiling',
It ain't nobody's business if I do.

If I let my best companion
Drive me right into the canyon,
It ain't nobody's business if I do.
After all the way to do is do just as you please,
Regardless of their talkin'
Often times the ones that talk will get down on their knees,
And beg your pardon for their squawkin'.

If I dislike my lover
And leave her for another,
It ain't nobody's business if I do.
If I go to church on Sunday,
Then cabaret on Monday,
It ain't nobody's business if I do.

If my friend ain't got no money
And I say, "Take all mine, honey,"
It ain't nobody's business if I do.
If I lend him my last nickel
And it leaves me in a pickle,
It ain't nobody's business if I do.

The Chaos (by G. Nolst 'Charivarius' Trenite)

Dearest creature in creation,
Study English pronunciation.
I will teach you in my verse
Sounds like corpse, corps, horse, and worse.
I will keep you busy, Suzy
Make your head with heat grow dizzy.
Tear in eye, your dress will tear.
So shall I! Oh hear my prayer.
Just compare heart, beard, and heard,
Dies and diet, lord and word,
Sword and sward, retain and Britain.
(Mind the latter, how it's written.)
Now I surely will not plague you
With such words as plaque and ague.
But be careful how you speak:
Say break and steak, but bleak and streak;
Cloven, oven, how and low,
Script, receipt, show, poem, and toe.

Hear me say, devoid of trickery,
Daughter, laughter, and Terpsichore,
Typhoid, measles, topsails, aisles,
Exiles, similes, and reviles;
Scholar, vicar, and cigar,
Solar, mica, war and far;
One, anemone, Balmoral,
Kitchen, lichen, laundry, laurel;
Gertrude, German, wind and mind,
Scene, Melpomene, mankind.

Billet does not rhyme with ballet,
Bouquet, wallet, mallet, chalet.
Blood and flood are not like food,
Nor is mould like should and would.
Viscous, viscount, load and broad,
Toward, to forward, to reward.
And your pronunciation's OK
When you correctly say croquet,
Rounded, wounded, grieve and sieve,
Friend and fiend, alive and live.

Ivy, privy, famous; clamour
And enamour rhyme with hammer.
River, rival, tomb, bomb, comb,
Doll and roll and some and home.
Stranger does not rhyme with anger,
Neither does devour with clangour.
Souls but foul, haunt but aunt,
Font, front, wont, want, grand, and grant,
Shoes, goes, does. Now first say finger,
And then singer, ginger, linger,
Real, zeal, mauve, gauze, gouge and gauge,
Marriage, foliage, mirage, and age.

Query does not rhyme with very,
Nor does fury sound like bury.
Dost, lost, post and doth, cloth, loth.
Job, nob, bosom, transom, oath.
Though the differences seem little,
We say actual but victual.
Refer does not rhyme with deafer.
Feoffer does, and zephyr, heifer.
Mint, pint, senate and sedate;
Dull, bull, and George ate late.
Scenic, Arabic, Pacific,
Science, conscience, scientific.

Liberty, library, heave and heaven,
Rachel, ache, moustache, eleven.
We say hallowed, but allowed,
People, leopard, towed, but vowed.
Mark the differences, moreover,
Between mover, cover, clover;
Leeches, breeches, wise, precise,
Chalice, but police and lice;
Camel, constable, unstable,
Principle, disciple, label.

Petal, panel, and canal,
Wait, surprise, plait, promise, pal.
Worm and storm, chaise, chaos, chair,
Senator, spectator, mayor.
Tour, but our and succour, four.
Gas, alas, and Arkansas.
Sea, idea, Korea, area,
Psalm, Maria, but malaria.
Youth, south, southern, cleanse and clean.
Doctrine, turpentine, marine.

Compare alien with Italian,
Dandelion and battalion.
Sally with ally, yea, ye,
Eye, I, ay, aye, whey, and key.
Say aver, but ever, fever,
Neither, leisure, skein, deceiver.
Heron, granary, canary.
Crevice and device and aerie.

Face, but preface, not efface.
Phlegm, phlegmatic, ass, glass, bass.
Large, but target, gin, give, verging,
Ought, out, joust and scour, scourging.
Ear, but earn and wear and tear
Do not rhyme with here but ere.
Seven is right, but so is even,
Hyphen, roughen, nephew Stephen,
Monkey, donkey, Turk and jerk,
Ask, grasp, wasp, and cork and work.

Pronunciation -- think of Psyche!
Is a paling stout and spikey?
Won't it make you lose your wits,
Writing groats and saying grits?
It's a dark abyss or tunnel:
Strewn with stones, stowed, solace, gunwale,
Islington and Isle of Wight,
Housewife, verdict and indict.

Finally, which rhymes with enough --
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!

Jabberwocky (by Lewis Carroll)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Perfect High or The Quest for Gimmesome Roy (by Shel Silverstein)

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
'Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas -- which was then the thing to do.
He tried aspirin in Coca-Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate-chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.
And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn't quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.
Acid made him see the light, but he couldn't remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I'm a healthy boy, and I'll crawl or climb or fly,
But I'll find that guru who'll give me the clue as to what's the perfect high."
So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits--and cries--and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.
He's grinding his teeth, he's coughing blood, he's aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow-blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,
As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes--sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What's happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I've come to state my biz.
I hear you're hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I'm about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"
"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "here's one more burnt-out soul,
Who's looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won't find it in no dealer's stash, or on no druggist's shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high -- find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy,
"I've climbed through rain and sleet,
I've lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I've braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot's kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?
My ears 'fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn't climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn't crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I'll kill your guru ass!"

Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you're forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that's known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil's garden blooms the mystic Tzu-Tzu tree.
And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu-Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun.
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don't ever come.
But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers-by.
And you must slay the red-eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.
And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There's a blood-drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu-Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu-Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."
And with tears of joy in his snow-blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,
Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,
Facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.
"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it's always the same, old men or bright-eyed youth,
It's always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."

Topless Town (by Shel Silverstein)

It all started out at Rosalie's Good Eats Cafe
Everybody sittin', eatin' eggs and grits, chattin' in the usual way
Lucy pourin' the coffee and dishin' out the eats
Wearin' one of them flimsy, frilly white blouses with nothin' underneath.

Then--a spark flies out of Judge McCory's cigar
Lands on Lucy--and sets her blouse on fire
Just a whoosh--and she's minus the top of her dress
Well, if you read that evenin's Banner, you know the rest--
How Big Jay Wilkes, a trucker for Mountain South,
Smothered her up in his big bear arms and squeezed and put her out
Then she goes a-runnin' for the Ladies' room like a shot
But not before everybody in the place seen everything she got.

Well, the word spread just as fast as that fire did
And next mornin' the cafe's crowded with old men, young men and kids
Hootin' and hollerin', stools spinnin' 'round like this
Hopin' and prayin' to get a little glimpse of what they'd missed
But naturally, Lucy ain't givin' nobody a treat
She's buttoned up to here and blushin' like a beet
And soon's all the boys see that there ain't no show
They all leave, grumblin' how they ain't comin' back no more.

Then Rosalie takes Lucy aside, and she says, "Listen, Babe,
We're losin' money, and I see a chance to get saved
Now what if you was to dress like you did yesterday
And we change the name to Rosalie's Topless Cafe?"
Well, Lucy reacts with fury and moral indignation
But they finally settle on a buck-an-hour raise and an extra week's vacation
And next mornin' she shows up au natural, as the French folks say
At the historic grand opening of Rosalie's Topless Cafe.

Talk about a hit! They're packed in and linin' up
A cover and a minimum--coffee $2 a cup
Lucy's pullin' down a thousand a week with tips and all
Workin' double shifts while startin' to bitch how
Her arches are beginning to fall.

Well, then Brenda on the night shift, she sees the tips Lucy's got
So the very next evenin' she shows up for work without no top
And two days later the cashier, Betsy Black
Come in and give Rosalie the shirt right off her back
Well, they come by the thousands to eat and drink and look
Soon Rosalie's gotta hire Fat Phyllis a second cook
"Well, I guess," says Phyllis, "y'gotta do like them Romans do,"
So she rips off her T-shirt and starts stirrin' up the stew.
But when Ed the busboy starts' enjoyin' things a little too much
She puts up a sign in the kitchen sayin' LOOK. DON'T TOUCH.
And Rosalie's payin' off her mortgage and puttin' her boy through school
Gotta hire a topless bouncer to keep things cool
And a carpark to keep up with the crowd outside
She says, "I always knew the good Lord would provide."

Then Jan at the Double J Luncheonette 'cross the street
Says "Hey, if they wanna play hardball, we got 'em beat."
So she and June put on their topless exhibition
And soon they're givin' Rosalie's stiff, stiff competition.
Well, then ol' Sam Pierce down at Pierce's Hardware Store
He repaints the sign outside his door
And the next day ol' Miz Pierce and her daughter Gayle
Are toplessly scoopin' out galvanized nails.

Then Reverend Peters says, "Folks it's a tough decision
But the Lord can't get run off by this competition."
So next Sunday therer's a topless ladies' choir in harmony
In a heartfelt rendition of Nearer My God to Thee."

Well zap!--it all takes off just like a shot
Les Willis opens his Topless Bait and Tackle Shop
And when the Farmers' Bank unveiled topless tellers
The interest rate sure went up amongst the fellers.

Well, Frank Willis hires a topless hostess at the Golden Cactus
Tom Rooney, proprietor of Tommy's Place, says that's unfair labor practice
So he sends to Milwaukee for a girl called Thirty-Eight Kate
And in less than a week he's stole half of Frank's business away.

And the tourists--they're pourin' in, honkin' and raisin' hell
Payin' $200 a night for a room at Tom's Topless Motel
Eatin' Rosalie's $4 burgers, no bun on top
Buyin' suntan lotion at our topless Stop and Shop.
Payin' $12.95 for a T-shirt from Topless Jean's
And payin' $50 for an autographed photo with Lucy,
Our original topless queen.
And Sister Rhodes says, "Our cup runneth over. We are truly blessed
'Cause they're makin' big contributions to our community chest."

Then the merchants' association of our town
Realizin' how the economy's been saggin' down
They call a meetin' and they search deep down in their souls
They take a vote and say, "Let the good times roll."

Well, soon there's a topless pharmacy and a topless shoe repair
The 4-H Club plannin' a topless county fair
There's a topless McDonald's and a topless rent-a-car
Only one hurtin' was Ed's Topless Go-Go Bar
Ed said he might as well close up and go fishin'
Or go bottomless to keep abreast of the competition.

Peter Lane says, "We all gotta do what we must
And the ones who don't have a feel for it'll just go bust"
Then Joe Hall of the Banner does an editorial:
"Let this be the binding bra's final memorial
Let our women enjoy unbridled liberation
And let our men be protected from fraud and falsification."

But Miss Agatha Baines of the Citizens for Decency
Says, " We cannot encourage these dens of iniquity
They're just tryin' to titillate the young men in this town"
And they go to Judge McCory for an order to close 'em all down
And they find him havin' a nip at Ma's Mammary Bar
Talkin' 'bout runnin' for governor and still puffin' on that big cigar

But he rules--from his stool--that "Regardless of shape, color and size
It's just an uplifting example of free enterprise
And anyone who has discouragin' words to say
Is against small business and the good ol' American way"
So Miss Agatha rips off her blouse patriotically
And yells, "Let them Japanese try to compete with these."

Well, that blows the lid off--before the week is past
We got topless gas station attendants pumpin' gas
Eileen Hobbs and her topless hot dog stand
The Lubbuc sisters in their topless moving van
Lou's Barber Shop filled with topless tourists
Gettin' topless manicures from topless manicurists
Topless majorettes in the Rotary marching band
A concert with ol' Miss Murgatroyd settin' topless at the baby grand
And the cheerleaders' team from the class of '69
All workin' the counter of the topless five-and-dime
Jim Dawson's wife runs for mayor on the topless ticket
And she was way out front -- till Jim decided to picket
Well, that opened the door for librarian Lauralene Grace
Who beat her by a nose, I tell you, it was some kind of race.

Doc Hamilton's backed up doin' implants and collagen injections
Liz Mason and her Topless Party sweep the fall elections
But some thought Jenny Hollman was a bit too crass
Showin' up topless to teach her eighth grade class
But she proved that thanks to her PhD cup
Attendance was perfect and attention was way up.

There are topless weddings and topless divorces
Topless equestrians showin' their horses
Topless druggists at the pharmacy
Topless checkout girls at the A&P
Topless gall drivin' topless cars
Topless meetings of the DAR
Topless adjusters at the Title and Trust
Topless policewomen makin' busts
Topless doctors, topless paramedics
Topless anesthesiologists givin' anesthetics
Topless joggers, topless hikers
Hitchin' rides with topless bikers
Topless brokers and CPAs
Topless mamas at the PTA
Topless lady construction workers
Topless acrobats at the Shrine circus.

So the housewives join in and soon you can see 'em all
Shoppin' topless, pushin' little topless strollers through the topless mall
Topless firefighters and meter maids
And Lucy, the queen of the Topless Day Parade
A booth in Seely Park for topless tourist information
Topless Mammorial Day celebrations
And everyone's happy, 'cept for Lola at Lola's Lingerie
She says camisoles are down, and she can't give bras away

Soon it spreads across the ocean--hear the tramp-tramp-tramp
Of topless models walking down topless ramps
Talk about decollete, we're rewriting the book
Givin' the world the revolutionary topless look
Dior's scared silly, St. Laurent's got the jitters
We got the whole damn fashion world all a-titter.

No more legislation that this must stop
Now they're trying to pass a law that you cannot wear a top
While our topless city council circulates a ballot 'round
To change our name officially to Topless Town
And every one of our citizens votes yes
Except for skinny Nancy Cobb with the flat, bony chest
So the sign gets changed to TOPLESS TOWN--POP.: 1704
'Course by the time the paint dries, there's about a thousand more
Then Matt Hanks, our stonecutter, climbs up Lookout Bluff
Says, "We'll have our own Mount Rushmore soon enough"
And he blasts and he hammers and he chisels in the proper places
And next day, there's a giant pair of--well, not exactly presidents' faces.

And the women's groups? Why, they're pleased as they can be
Because they finally got financial equality
"Equality?" screams Nancy Cobb
"Those big-busted babes now got all the jobs."
So she writes to Washington that very night
In a passionate plea for boobless rights.

The president says, "Hey, what's goin' on down there?"
Don't they know there's laws 'bout what they can and can't wear?
Have they lost all their sense of propriety?
Someone must have laced their reservoir with LSD
It's Sodom and Gomorrah--a flagrant abuse of bein' free
Showin' kids what they was never meant to see!
And if they don't defer to decency's demands
I'll have to go there myself and take the situation in hand."

Then the press gets hold of it, and Monday there's our topless queen
Dishin' out hash on the cover of Time magazine
Then Hollywood comes bangin' through our doors
Wantin' to give out Golden Globe Awards
And every evenin' on the boob tube, the whole country can see our faces
And the attorney general announces this is gonna be one of her priority cases
And then the Senate and the House, they jump on in
Sayin, "Don't you know it's a crime and a shame and a sin?
And if you don't button up, zip up and snap up today
We gonna take every cent of your federal subsidies away."

Then you should have seen the notice the Supreme Court sent us
Declarin' us unconstitutional and Judge McCory non compos mentis
And statin' in language spiteful, specific and strong
That we better put our natural resources back where they belong.

But who in the hell do they think they're bossing around?
Not us pioneer, upstandin' citizens of Topless Town
Judge McCory says after due deliberation
"It's a clear-cut case of federal intimidation"
Then Joe Tanners says, "Damn the government and damn the courts
We don't need 'em--this town was built on self-support."

Ol' Miz Fletcher says, "This country's goin' down the tubes
They must think we're all just a bunch of boobs
They're our bosom buddies when it's time to pay tax and all that
Now they wanna go cut off our funds and just leave us flat"
Then Ellie McKay stands up and starts to rant and rave
Shoutin', "Ain't this the land of the free and the home of the brave?
Well, I feel a lot freer without that ol' boulder holder of mine
And I'm brave enough to stand up and let my little lights shine."

And from the Salvation Army steps up Katie West
She says, "I got a couple things I gotta get off my chest"
She says, "We got no more homeless, no unemployed
Because men have somethin' to reach for and the women are overjoyed
So I wanna tell these knockers of liberty
I ain't gonna let 'em put no halter on me
And if they keep makin' threats about a federal bust
It's gonna case a major cleavage 'tween Washington and us.

"Tell the president that according to the Constitution
We got the right to dress ourselves without federal intrusion
The right to take off what's tight and what don't fit
The right to pay our rent and buy our grits
The right to improve our lot by usin' our wits
The right to bear arms--and also to bear tits."

So we take a vote--the whole damn town
And announce unanimously:
"Topless Town hereby secedes from the Union
Because the Union wouldn't let us be."
And we declare ourselves an independent
Self-determined sovereign state
And we build a tall wall around us all--
No roads, no bridges, no gate
And we pledge allegiance to our flag
Two…well, you know what they are
And I ain't puttin' down Old Glory
But they're prettier than stripes and stars
And we're free and unbridled
Behind these ivy-covered walls
And you drive by on the freeway and
Never notice us here at all.

Yeah, we got no taxes--we got no crime
But we got no room to spare
You'd like to come visit? I'll bet you would
But, friends, you ain't got a prayer--
Topless Town's stayin' safe and sound--
You can't get here from there.

Casey at the Bat (by Ernest L. Thayer)

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day,
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.

And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair.
The rest clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast.
They thought, "if only Casey could but get a whack at that.
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake;
and the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake.

So upon that stricken multitude, grim melancholy sat;
for there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all.
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball.

And when the dust had lifted,
and men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

it pounded through on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat;
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place,
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt t'was Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

Then, while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped --
"That ain't my style," said Casey.

"Strike one!" the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm waves on a stern and distant shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand,
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity, great Casey's visage shone,
he stilled the rising tumult, he bade the game go on.

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew,
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate.
He pounds, with cruel violence, his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright.
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light.
And, somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout,

but there is no joy in Mudville--
mighty Casey has struck out.

Ghost Riders In The Sky (by Stan Jones)

An old cowpoke went riding out one dark and windy day
Upon a ridge he rested as he went along his way
When all at once a mighty herd of red eyed cows he saw
A-plowing through the ragged sky and up the cloudy draw

Their brands were still on fire and their hooves were made of steel
Their horns were black and shiny and their hot breath he could feel
A bolt of fear went through him as they thundered through the sky
For he saw the Riders coming hard and he heard their mournful cry

Yippee-I-Ay
Yippee-I-Oh
Ghost riders in the sky

Their faces gaunt, their eyes were blurred, their shirts all soaked with sweat
They're riding hard to catch that herd, but they ain't caught 'em yet
'Cause they've got to ride forever on that range up in the sky
On horses snorting fire
As they ride on hear their cry

As the riders loped on by him he heard one call his name
If you want to save your soul from Hell a-riding on our range
Then cowboy change your ways today or with us you will ride
Trying to catch the Devil's herd, across these endless skies

Yippee-I-Ay
Yippee-I-Oh
Ghost riders in the sky
Ghost riders in the sky

Look Away (by John Anderson)

Bobby took a trip to his Georgia hometown,
to the land of dreams,
just to have a look around
He parked his car at the courthouse square,
but it was like a ghost town,
there was nobody there
And Jim's Drugstore was a tanning salon
He asked an old man, "Where's ev'rybody gone?"
He found them out at the shopping center,
where Highway One meets Interstate Twenty
The country boys weren't wearing overalls,
They were wearing suits made of camouflage
Southern belles talking like "Valley Girls"
He scratched his head and said, "What in the world?"

Dixie's had a facelift,
I guess she's looking better,
but I kinda liked the old one,
I never will forget her
Look away
Look away
Look away, Dixieland

Johnny took a trip to his Florida hometown,
to the land of his dreams,
just to have a look around
At first he thought he was on the wrong road
'Cause he didn't see any orange groves
Now, trailer parks and condos grew
on the land that he once knew
He saw the city limits sign
And guessed he'd crossed the city line
There were strangers everywhere he went,
without sport shirts and strange accents
They took the north and they moved it south
He said, "Shut my redneck mouth!"

Dixie's had a facelift,
I guess she's looking better,
but I kinda liked the old one,
I never will forget her
Look away
Look away
Look away, Dixieland

Billy took a trip to his Tennessee town,
to the land of his dreams,
just to have a look around
He drove his car down Music Row
to look up stars he used to know
But the secretaries wouldn't let him in,
Said "Leave your name and call again"
So, he thought he'd get some barbeque
at a little place that he once knew
But all he found were sushi bars
and dealerships for foreign cars,
and buildings that reached for the sky
He said, "Where the hell am I?"

Dixie's had a facelift,
I guess she's looking better,
but I kinda liked the old one,
I never will forget her
Look away
Look away
Look away, Dixieland

Look away
Gone away
Far away
Dixieland.

Pandas (by Corky and the Juice Pigs)

White and black, the friendly bears of China
White and black, they rarely reproduce
What shall be done about these Chinese bears?
What shall be done about these friendly bears?

Die, they must die
The pandas must die
Die, they must die
The pandas must die
Yay!

Why should we save them?
What good do they do?
Have you ever seen a panda
Do something good for you?
They can't wear t-shirts,
They can't bounce basketballs
They can't walk tightropes
Over Niagara Falls

Die, they must die
The pandas must die
Die, they must die
The pandas must die
You fat bastard!

All endangered species
Leave endangered feces
If you knew how bad they smelled
You would gladly take their pelt
If we kill them all
We can have more parking lots
We can have small couches
Made of little ocelots

Die, they must die
The pandas must die
Die, they must die
The pandas must die

The Men That Don't Fit In (by Robert W. Service)

There's A race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far,
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost; He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

I Like Beer (by Tom T. Hall)

In some of my songs,
I have casually mentioned
The fact that I like to drink beer
This little song,
is more to the point
so roll out the barrel and lend me your ear:

I like beer.
It makes me a jolly good fellow.
I like beer.
It helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow
(makes him feel mellow)
Whiskey's too rough,
champagne costs too much,
vodka puts my mouth in gear.
This little refrain
should help me explain
as a matter of fact,
I like beer
(he likes beer)

My wife often frowns
when we're out on the town
and I'm wearing a suit and a tie
She's sipping vermouth,
and she thinks I'm uncouth,
when I yell as the waiter goes by

I like beer.
It makes me a jolly good fellow.
I like beer.
It helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow
(makes him feel mellow)
Whiskey's too rough,
champagne costs too much,
vodka puts my mouth in gear.
This little refrain
should help me explain
as a matter of fact,
I like beer
(he likes beer)

Last night, I dreamed
that I passed from the scene,
and I went to a place so sublime,
all the water was clear and tasted like beer--
then they turned it all into wine (awww).

I like beer.
It makes me a jolly good fellow.
I like beer.
It helps me unwind and sometimes it makes me feel mellow.
(makes him feel mellow)
Whiskey's too rough,
champagne costs too much,
vodka puts my mouth in gear.
This little refrain
should help me explain
as a matter of fact,
I LOVE beer.
(yes, he likes beer)

The White Man's Burden (by Rudyard Kipling)

Take up the White Man's burden--
Send forth the best ye breed--
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness,
On fluttered folk and wild--
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half-devil and half-child.

Take up the White Man's burden--
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden--
The savage wars of peace--
Fill full the mouth of Famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden--
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper--
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go mark them with your living,
And mark them with your dead.

Take up the White Man's burden--
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard--
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:--
"Why brought he us from bondage,
Our loved Egyptian night?"

Take up the White Man's burden--
Ye dare not stoop to less--
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloke your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden--
Have done with childish days--
The lightly proferred laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years
Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!

The Old Issue (by Rudyard Kipling)

Here is nothing new nor aught unproven,” say the Trumpets,
    “Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.
“It is the King—the King we schooled aforetime!”
    (Trumpets in the marshes—in the eyot at Runnymede!)

“Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger,” peal the Trumpets,
    “Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.
“It is the King!”—inexorable Trumpets—
    (Trumpets round the scaffold at the dawning by Whitehall!)

“He hath veiled the Crown and hid the Sceptre,” warn the Trumpets,
    “He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.
“Hard die the Kings—ah hard—dooms hard!” declare the Trumpets,
    Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill!

Ancient and Unteachable, abide—abide the Trumpets!
    Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings
Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets—
    Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings!

All we have of freedom, all we use or know—
This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.

Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw—
Leave to live by no man's leave, underneath the Law.

Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing
Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the King.

Till our fathers 'stablished, after bloody years,
How our King is one with us, first among his peers.

So they bought us freedom—not at little cost
Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost,

Over all things certain, this is sure indeed,
Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed.

Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure.
Whining “He is weak and far”; crying “Time shall cure.”,

(Time himself is witness, till the battle joins,
Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people's loins.)

Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace.
Suffer not the old King here or overseas.

They that beg us barter—wait his yielding mood—
Pledge the years we hold in trust—pawn our brother's blood—

Howso' great their clamour, whatsoe'er their claim,
Suffer not the old King under any name!

Here is naught unproven—here is naught to learn.
It is written what shall fall if the King return.

He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,
Set his guards about us, as in Freedom's name.

He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware;
He shall change our gold for arms—arms we may not bear.

He shall break his judges if they cross his word;
He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.

He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring
Watchers 'neath our window, lest we mock the King—

Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies;
Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies.

Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,
These shall deal our Justice: sell—deny—delay.

We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse
For the Land we look to—for the Tongue we use.

We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,
While his hired captains jeer us in the street.

Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun,
Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.

Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled,
Laying on a new land evil of the old—

Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain—
All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.

Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue—
Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.

Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid:
Step for step and word for word—so the old Kings did!

Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read.
Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed—

All the right they promise—all the wrong they bring.
Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King!

I ain't no role model, either. Never claimed to be. Form your own political positions. It's not the LP, or the GOP, or the Constitution Party, or any group's place to decide for you. Use your own judgment of what government should be doing, based upon reason, not emotion or affiliation. I don't represent the LP, or stand for the LP. My freepername is about giving a perspective on who I am and where I was at the time I stopped lurking. That's it.

"My principles were not developed by me "as a Libertarian." They evolved over a period of time by applying rational thought to the unique situations presented by different scenarios. On some issues I would be called quite conservative, liberal or libertarian on others. Only an intellectually lazy fool allows his complete ideology to be handed to him by some political philosophy."
- Neal Boortz

Additionally, my freepername does not appoint me target for the LP's hatemail, nor did I nominate myself spokesman for the LP. I'm not even an LP member or financial supporter. If you are posting on FR and still haven't figured out that someone's name doesn't tell you everything you need to know about them, I hope you run into a cop named Dick that proves you right.

To those who still would like to whine about Libertarians, or complain that I'm not listing where I live, or whatever else it is that you want to know about me or bitch about, well, wahhh. That's life. It sucks. Get a helmet. I really don't give a rat's fat tuckus if you'd like to reply to me in person, you don't like my politics, or you wanna know exactly TO where it is that I'm exiled. I love America--I just had to leave it for a while because of my occupation. And it doesn't matter where I'm posting FROM, but where I posted TO: I posted online, so get a pair and reply online. I don't care if you're from DesMoines or Daytona. I'll reply if you actually have a well considered point of view, not just lame harassment from self-styled 'conservatives,' you typical military-industrial RINO types (you know, the ones that Republican Dwight D. Eisenhower, a great general and a president who was the last of his breed, warned us about). Finally, don't think you're any more special than other folks who don't like my opinions, `cause there's a line of `em, and you ain't first. Those of us who are real conservatives are used to being told we're wrong.

"Reason is always a kind of brute force; those who appeal to the head rather than the heart, however pallid and polite, are necessarily men of violence. We speak of 'touching' a man's heart, but we can do nothing to his head but hit it."
- G.K. Chesterton

That is not to say I wouldn't welcome incorporation sometimes. All is better than some. But none is better than all, if you believe (as I do) that local governments constrained by state constitutions should be far more powerful than a distant federal government constrained by the Constitution.

"All government is an ugly necessity."
- G.K. Chesterton

But in the meantime, my ideas have been right more than anyone else's--the more that small, free countries have been allowed to have free flow of ideas and free markets, in a legal system that provides relatively equal justice under law, with as little restraint as possible from government, the more they have demonstrated their superiority over every economic and political system on the planet. Build a strong enough central government, even one voted for by good men, and it will eventually be controlled by evil men. We're well on our way.

"I believe in only one thing: liberty; but I do not believe in liberty enough to want to force it upon anyone."
- H.L. Mencken

    

Reagan brought a constellation of virtues to the office of the presidency—guts, compassion, humor, a lack of pretension, a willingness to face the world and tell the truth, a willingness to make decisions and stand by them—and his leadership changed the world, and for the better. As president, he was a giant.
- Peggy Noonan

"The question whether one generation has the right to bind another by a deficit it imposes is a question of such consequence as to place it among the fundamental principles of our government. We should consider ourselves unauthorized to saddle posterity with our debts and morally bound to pay for them ourselves. "
- Thomas Jefferson

Social Security should be ENDED. Not mended. Not fixed. Not strengthened. ENDED. Screw phasing it out. Buy it out. Give the money, in a big fat gummint check, that Social Security-age and near-SS age folks (say, up to age 50) put in, back to them. With interest--but taxable as income (which it would have been if never taken out of people's income to begin with). Let everyone else out, with no payout at age 62 or 65 or 67. SS is OVER. End payroll taxes for SS purposes.

"Social Security is simply a tax. Like all taxes, the money collected is spent immediately as general revenues to fund the federal government. The Social Security trust fund does not exist, and Social Security 'surpluses' are nothing more than an accounting ledger showing that contributions exceeded benefits paid for a given calendar year--not that the excess was put aside...Allowing people to opt out of Social Security would force the federal government to admit it has been stealing money from Social Security for decades...No matter what politicians promise, Social Security reform will not change the fact that your money is taken from your paycheck and sent to Washington, where it will be spent."
- Ron Paul

Reform is a joke! The only way to 'reform' Social Security and do so fairly is END IT ENTIRELY. Seems likely taxes would have to be increased on everyone to handle that initial payout, but then, SS's final payouts would be taxable as income, then as they would be either sitting in bank accounts or pissed away on things that ARE taxed, we might be double dipping on that money--so maybe taxes wouldn't have to be increased too long, as the economy benefited from that burst of freed up, non-government controlled money. Seniors take a hit in paying taxes on the dough. Non-seniors don't get any of the stolen money back. Someone's got to pay for these old farts--it should be their families, and if it's not going to be, why should it be you and me? Why are WE culpable for their families' mistake or THEIR mistake for pissing on their families?

I don't believe in redistributionism, and I don't believe in government being involved in charity. Far too many people do. That is why the Social Security program is there, and it's why it must end, if only to demonstrate the difference ending