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Date:         Fri, 9 Feb 2001 18:53:05 -0700
Reply-To:     John Klun <jklun@GJ.NET>
Sender:       Vanagon Mailing List <vanagon@gerry.vanagon.com>
From:         John Klun <jklun@GJ.NET>
Subject:      Re: Frydaye Follies for Friendly Ffolkes or Fickle Fussbudgets!
Comments: To: Joel Walker <jwalker17@EARTHLINK.NET>
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii

Hey Joel!

Why dontcha put all your pomes ina book for us to buy... I'd buy one if they were all f(p)unny like that...

Joel Walker wrote:

> 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.


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