Date:         Thu, 8 Feb 2001 22:20:22 -0600
Reply-To:     Joel Walker <jwalker17@EARTHLINK.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         Joel Walker <jwalker17@EARTHLINK.NET>
Organization: not likely
Subject:      Frydaye Follies for Friendly Ffolkes or Fickle Fussbudgets!
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well, i haven't gotten time and energy to write any new stuff for a
long time, so this is all rehashing stuff that's already been
'published' once or twice. what the heck ... :)

it's Klassical Poultry!!! makes you wanna run right back and retake
that English Literature course you suffered through! ;)

  Depictus??
      by Billie Ernie Hindleg

  Under the bus that carries me,
    Black as the grease on CV balls,
  I thank whatever gods may be
    For my decrepit overalls.

  Smudges from axles, loosely gripped;
    I have not flinched nor cried aloud
  As blood from my knuckles (socket slipped)
    Has colored the surface of this shroud.

  Above these spots and greasy smears
    Are streak-ed paints of different shade,
  And stains of ketchup, mustard, beers ...
    I wear them proudly, unafraid.

  It matters not how loud the gripe
    From friends or neighbors, wives, et al ...
  I will not wash, though they be ripe,
    These funky stinking overalls.



  Elegy Written on a Country Junkyard
        by Thomas Gray Metallic

  The setting sun defines the end of day,
    As doors and windows close against the night,
  When tools and parts are left just where they lay,
    For easy use tomorrow at first light.

  The cursing fades, the laughter ceases now,
    In ones and twos, the men are gone away.
  Old Sol is slow to take his final bow
    As insects tune themselves and start to play.

  It matters not the model nor the year
    Nor cost of purchase when the cars were new,
  For like a graveyard, all will enter here
    To rust beneath the sun and morning dew.

  But there are some whose Karma reaches far
    To kindred souls, for help to cheat the grave;
  And whether whole, or parted out, they are
    Extending lives upon the road they crave.

  For these, the kindred few, this yard is not
     A place wherein some dread should make them shy;
  Not like a graveyard, with decay and rot,
     But more a warehouse, open to the sky.