We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
'Terence, this is stupid stuff. You eat your victuals fast enogh; There can't be much amiss, 'tis clear, To see the rate you drink your beer. But oh, good Lord, the verse you make, It gives a chap the belly-ache. The cow, the old cow, she is dead; It sleeps well, the horned head; We, poor lads, 'tis our turn now To hear such tunes as killed the cow. Pretty friendship 'tis to rhyme Your friends to death before their time Moping melancholy mad: Come, pipe a tune to dance to, lad.'
Why, if ’tis dancing you would be, There’s brisker pipes than poetry. Say, for what were hop-yards meant, Or why was Burton built on Trent? Oh many a peer of England brews Livelier liquor than the Muse, And malt does more than Milton can To justify God’s ways to man. Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink For fellows whom it hurts to think.
from Verse LXll, A Shropshire Lad, by A.E. Housman. Read entire
Why, if ’tis dancing you would be,
There’s brisker pipes than poetry.
Say, for what were hop-yards meant,
Or why was Burton built on Trent?
Oh many a peer of England brews
Livelier liquor than the Muse,
And malt does more than Milton can
To justify God’s ways to man.
Ale, man, ale’s the stuff to drink
For fellows whom it hurts to think...
Nicely picked BD. One of my favorite poems. Seems to me that most of the time, the only thing determining whether Terence or Mithridates gets the better of the argument is blind luck. I know plenty of people who should have worked harder on their drinking; or as a wise man once said to me, "there's not too many people who say on their deathbed, 'I wish I'd spent more time at work'."
Maybe that's the key. If you die hard you wish you'd worked harder; die easy and you wish you'd worked less.
Oh, I have been to Ludlow fair
And left my necktie God knows where,
And carried halfway home, or near,
Pints and quarts of Ludlow beer.
Then the world seemed none so bad,
And I myself a sterling lad,
And down in lovely muck I've lain,
Happy 'til I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky.
Heigh-Ho, the tale was all a lie.
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do,
But begin the game anew.