There are two bulls in a field: Little Bull is young and headstrong, whereas Big Bull is old and wise.
One day, over the horizon, Little Bull spies a herd of heifers, twenty five or thirty strong.
In his excitement, he exclaims to Big Bull, "Hey, do you see that? Look at all those heifers! What do you say we run down there and knock a few of those up?"
Big Bull turns calmly to Little Bull and replies, "Nah, let's walk down there quietly and knock up the whole lot."
Thank you Alan for your Aussie wisdom. Confusion to the enemy!
Wednesday, 26 August 2009
For now, a poem.
I kept a diary of my sojourn in Tokyo, so I'll blog it up at some point. In the mean time, a poem:
Friends in high places
would be nice to know,
but I'm glad I have friends
in the year below.
For all my faults
I graduate,
one entire
year too late.
Friends in high places
would be nice to know,
but I'm glad I have friends
in the year below.
For all my faults
I graduate,
one entire
year too late.
Tuesday, 25 August 2009
Poets Ranked by Beard Weight
from A Journey Round My Skull.
"As will be noted, Underwood awards the highest ranking to Samuel F. B. Morse, laconic linguist and perfecter of the practical telegraph, whose name will be forever linked with that ingenious system of stripped-down prosody masterfully devised for conveying writing over distances by means of a wire which enabled him to transmit from Washington to Baltimore the immortal message: "What hath God wrought." In conferring the prize upon Morse, Underwood cites both the prominence of his whiskerage and the pre-eminence of his poetic gravity ratio, and recalls the little-known circumstances of Morse's poignant demise: "...as the eminent inventor-poet lay on his deathbed huskily breathing his last, and dusk and death's shadow competed to cast their palls over the hushed, but crowded room, vigil-keepers gasped as a sparrow descended from a nearby wire, lit at the windowsill, and began to tap rapidly with its tiny beak." Perhaps the bewildering bird was only attracted by the nest-worthiness of Morse's monolithic mass of whiskers. But, instead of flitting to nestle in the cottony tufts of the moribund seer's chin-fringe, the sparrow, according to astonished onlookers, tapped on the sill in perfect telegraphic code "…that nurtureth speech from silence…," at the precise moment the old sage expired. The testimony of the numerous sober witnesses to this incident is a matter of historical record."
"As will be noted, Underwood awards the highest ranking to Samuel F. B. Morse, laconic linguist and perfecter of the practical telegraph, whose name will be forever linked with that ingenious system of stripped-down prosody masterfully devised for conveying writing over distances by means of a wire which enabled him to transmit from Washington to Baltimore the immortal message: "What hath God wrought." In conferring the prize upon Morse, Underwood cites both the prominence of his whiskerage and the pre-eminence of his poetic gravity ratio, and recalls the little-known circumstances of Morse's poignant demise: "...as the eminent inventor-poet lay on his deathbed huskily breathing his last, and dusk and death's shadow competed to cast their palls over the hushed, but crowded room, vigil-keepers gasped as a sparrow descended from a nearby wire, lit at the windowsill, and began to tap rapidly with its tiny beak." Perhaps the bewildering bird was only attracted by the nest-worthiness of Morse's monolithic mass of whiskers. But, instead of flitting to nestle in the cottony tufts of the moribund seer's chin-fringe, the sparrow, according to astonished onlookers, tapped on the sill in perfect telegraphic code "…that nurtureth speech from silence…," at the precise moment the old sage expired. The testimony of the numerous sober witnesses to this incident is a matter of historical record."
Monday, 3 August 2009
Sunday, 2 August 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)