Maggie's Farm

Word is, they turned on Imus because he's too Liebermanish a Lib. IOW, not on a short-enough leash.

And, sorry, NJ, but you're NOT agin' Soros--his NGOs get cascades of your tax dollars.

Not sure what you mean, anonymous, but, be careful with all those dots --damn things'll getcha standing on one leg sometimes.

Here's more (just now popped up on Instapundit) from Powerline, on Soro's "Media Matters":

http://powerlineblog.com/archives/017385.php

Soros, still undermining the Swiftboat Vets.

ha--not "sore roses" then.

from buried heart 'neath western snows,

so rose and grows Soros' sore rose.

jeez, I LOVE that. My first experience with 'western snows' was in the early 1870s when i decamped Austin for the Rockies, and the first girl i met up there was named Lasca (can't say her last name, she might get po'd). what're the odds.

anyhoo, i guess mine was from that Bette Midler song, "The Rose". No, wait--there was a Joan Baez song--a cover of an old traditional folkie, about young lovers. One dies tragically, the other follows deliberately, and from their graves grow two roses, which intertwine. or some crazy thing like that. "Barbara Allen" ? Maybe?

i took you mean there was an organized conspiracy in the NE knocking down such planes as TWA 700, and the one soon after 911, and the third, I do not know--the Egyptian-suicide pilot? Anyway, hell, who knows. Myself, I have to stick with the official reports, as there is no bottom anymore if one doesn't. Saints preserve our sanity --we may need it one day.

anonymous, i may've read you completely wrong. if so, please accept my apologies.

char, it WAS "Barbara Allen". That was my memory coup of 2007, thank you for the stimulation. "Barbara Allen" turns out (google, yay) is 300 years old, lyrics vary, here's some:

http://www.woodpecker.com/lyrics/barbaraallen.html

(ends up with the same theme as Lasca)

"Oh mother mother make my bed
Make it long and make it narrow
Sweet William died for me today
I'll die for him tomorrow

They buried her in the old churchyard
They buried him in the choir
And from his grave grew a red red rose
From her grave a green briar

They grew and grew to the steeple top
Till they could grow no higher
And there they twined in a true love's knot
Red rose around green briar."

(hell, I need a fricken hankie now)

ha, okay, (sob, blubber, accumulate phlegm)

Yep, that little couplet is mine, but i wuz just playing with Soros name. Your version is light years improved. Here's the next few 'Lasca' lines (the whole thing is just great, perfect 1880 cowboy verse, which it is):

"Lasca used to ride
On a mouse-gray mustang close to my side,
With blue serapé and bright-belled spur;
I laughed with joy as I looked at her!
Little knew she of books or of creeds;
An Avé Maria sufficed her needs;
Little she cared, save to be by my side,
To ride with me, and ever to ride...."

(and on it goes, at a brisk canter)

But the Sorosians are trying to bury the western heart, you know.

you won't sleep 'til THAT call comes in--mercy. Pero si, hasta manana.

ha--just a ditty. wrote itself. "snows" because lefties freeze things and it rhymes with "soros", et cetera, western, the West, buried life, to grow a thing of beauty (utopia) which is not really what it seems, yada yada.

Anyhoo, scroll down to near bottom, home page of your "Lasca" site:

http://www.cowboypoetry.com/aboutus.htm

...and see, it's COWBOY POETRY WEEK! All the way to April 21, day after me boitday. Your "Lasca" was a great gift, 'cause I have an old cowboy poem that I can send in, as per their request. I never woulda
knowed about it save for all this banter, thank you Soros, you occasionally serendipitous old Red, you.

Well, that was a birthday present--thank you, m'am! Yep, me too, could use a delete icon, probably about half the time i write something. But, nooo, there it has to squat, radiating chagrin forevermore.

No, I have this old falling-apart, newspaper-print pamphlet, sent to my dad by someone i know not who, i think while he was a POW in Stalag Luft 1. It's called "Texas Brags", subhead "collected by John Randolph, illustrated by Mark Storm". Page 45, has one of those kind of poems, the credit says "...written by a soldier stationed in El Paso World War No. I. His name is unknown. It was published in an El Paso newspaper".

Looks like just what that "Cowboy Poetry" site is lookin fer. I'll type it in after I gits me day's work done. It's pretty long for a two-fingered keyboard-poker.

The Devil, we're told, in Hell was chained,
And a thousand years he there remained;
He never complained, nor did he groan,
But determined to start up a hell of his own,
Where he could torment the souls of men,
Without being chained in a prison pen,
So he asked the Lord if He had on hand
Anything left, when He'd made the land.

The Lord said: "Yes, I had plenty on hand,
But I left it all down on the Rio Grande,
The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor,
I don't think you could use it for Hell anymore."

The Devil went down to look at the truck,
And said if it came as a gift he was stuck;
For after examining careful and well,
He concluded the place was too bad for Hell.

(there's the first third, pant pant whew, more later)

heh--have to watch Kudlow, then Cramer, then some news --got to watch the beans, one more kid thru Kollidge and i can QUIT watching the beans--yayyy--move to South Padre Island and hunt & gather for a livin' --
:-D

yuk yuk--forgot about that Spring Break thing--yes, how to become an ancient fossil--ok, nope, no Padre Island. It was great in the olden days tho. Gotta be some place peaceful. In the immortal words of Nicholas Cage speaking of his promised-land dream in the denouemont in "Raising Arizona",

"And it seemed like...well, our home. If not Arizona, then a land not too far away...where all parents are strong and wise and capable, and all children are happy and beloved. I don't know. Maybe it was Utah."

LOL--thanks--great candles--but don't try blowing 'em out, you'll hyperventilate, whew--

I broke my cowboy poem promise--lost my wifi last nite--I'm on a tower at the distance limit, glitches frustratingly often--like now, it's set up an oversold condition on the cowboy poem, building it up like the new Hamlet--to where it can't possibly end up any good.

But i'll get er typed today--for the record--posteriorty demands it!

...and, good questions up there @ 32.1 --food for thought. Thinking--

LOL--yep, been to those off-key choral events--Lord love us for doing it! No, here it is--didn't forget--just got too much b'day White Russian, which led to Bourb--feh. Here's the whole thing, drawn from an El Paso newspaper, attributed to anonymous "World War No. I" soldier stationed there, and 'found' by me in old 40s pamphlet "Texas Brags":

The Devil, we're told, in Hell was chained,
And a thousand years he there remained;
He never complained, nor did he groan,
But determined to start up a hell of his own,
Where he could torment the souls of men,
Without being chained in a prison pen,
So he asked the Lord if He had on hand
Anything left, when He'd made the land.

The Lord said: "Yes, I had plenty on hand,
But I left it all down on the Rio Grande,
The fact is, old boy, the stuff is so poor,
I don't think you could use it for Hell anymore."

The Devil went down to look at the truck,
And said if it came as a gift he was stuck;
For after examining careful and well,
He concluded the place was too bad for Hell.

So in order to get it off his hands,
The Lord promised the Devil to water the lands;
For He had some water, or rather some dregs,
A regular cathartic that smelled like bad eggs,
Hence the deal was closed and the deed was given,
And the Lord went back to His home in Heaven.
And the devil said: "I have all that is needed
To make a good Hell," and hence he succeeded.

He began to put thorns on all of the trees,
And he mixed the sand with millions of fleas;
He scattered tarantulas along all the roads,
Put thorns on the cacti and horns on the toads;
He lengthened the horns of the Texas steers,
And he put an addition on the jackrabbit's ears,
And he put a little devil in the bronco steed
And he poisoned the feet of the centipede.

The heat in the summer is a hundred and ten,
Too hot for the devil and too hot for the men;
The wild boar roams through the black chaparral,
It's a hell of a place he has for a hell.
The red pepper grows on the side of the brook,
The Mexicans use it in all that they cook.
Just dine with a Mexican and then you will shout:
"It's Hell on the inside as well as the out!"

AND, BINGO, i JUST GOT IT SUBMITTED TO THE COWBOY POETRY SITE, in the nick o time ("Cowboy Poetry Week" ends April 21), and entirely thanks to you, char --
:-)

Well i'm tickled you got a kick out of it. Good idea, i'll send it to the local Blanco & Dripping Springs rags. It's Founder's Day in Dripping Springs this weekend--i think half of Houston is already up here. Mercy, the traffic. Must be a hunerd cars clogging Main (aka "only") street. I didn't go in tonight as I'm already foundered on dotter's b'day green enchiladas, made from scratch (burp).

I'll bet he does have some stories. Be nice to tape him while you can--ask hime for his best stories "for your book". Coincidence, my own Uncle John is probably who sent dad that pamphlet while he was in stir under the nazis. Uncle John and dad grew up in Eagle Lake--you know where it is--and Uncle John started up and ran the Katy Drilling Co there in Katy, back when it was a ways west of Big H (before Houston came out and absorbed it). He passed away some time ago, and nobody ever wrote down his stories. Damn, sad thought on a rainy Sunday. But, so it goes.

yep--I need to do that while we still have some of that generation. They're going fast, alas, bless their pore old hearts.