USO Canteen FReeper Style ~ Pancakes on Wednesday ~ 26 November 2003

Canteen FRiends ~ Radix

[Kathy in Alaska]

Too too funny!! Now I know where the curtains went.

[Radix]

That Old Troop with chevrons
He thinks that he knows it all

I came here to fight the enemy
I care not for trivial tasks

Don't make me pick up butts
Let me kick them instead

Warriors froth, at the mouth
Inspired by unknown cadence

I want to defend what is right
With every bit of my might

I did not ask for this War
I know what to what I swore

Give me my sword
I will go forward

For Life, Liberty
And to protect fools
Detatched, simple, imbeciles
Who know not themselves
Even as called by nomenclature

[Kathy in Alaska]

[Kathy in Alaska]

Cute!! Did you eat today? Twice?

[Kathy in Alaska]

In God We Trust
our nation to stand
whole and under God
in this FREE LAND

Beautiful, ms feather.

[Soaring Feather]

Thank You Kathy.

[Old Sarge]

One final BRATTWOOHOO! eh?

Rest easy, Lady...

[Soaring Feather]

Good night Goddess, sleep well.

Thank you for all you do in the Canteen.

[Old Sarge]

???

[Soaring Feather]

Wow Ma love your new look!! Woo Hoo!!

[Radix]

 

 

Though I am not yet fifty years old, I have known this poem for more than 40 years.

 

I am reminded of it when I think of what the Troops do for us. 

 

 We should all appreciate a good and Immortal poem, in my opinion.

---

 

 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - The Village Blacksmith

 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
 The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
 With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
 Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
 His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
 He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
 For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
 You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
 With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
 When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
 Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
 And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
 Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
 And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
 He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
 And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
 Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
 How in the grave she lies;
And with his haul, rough hand he wipes
 A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
 Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
 Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
 Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
 Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
 Each burning deed and thought.

[Radix]

BratSOG!

[Radix]

!!!

[Kathy in Alaska]

Tomorrow is also Coast Guard Day! Yippee!
Uniform pressed? (and no cat hairs?)
Shoes shined?
Beard trimmed?

[Fawnn]

Oh great! Now I've ticked you off already and I was counting on you being stranger enough to continue to be kind to me! ;)