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old moose BS: To be read on the day (11) RE: BS: To be read on the day 07 Oct 07

So here it is, one day after the party For a captive audience the folks were vey kind. I heard no audible booing.   I felt awkward though I had neither feathers or wings, nobody was alowed to flee to the loo and the food was indoors, not like we do it in summer, and everyone stated put. I want to thank Don Firth for his praise, and all those who listened so well and all those whom read it here.
                         old moose      

       The Blithering Idiot Speaks
Good friends, if I may make that assumption,
(you choose which is the assumption)
I have noticed, on past occasions, your toleration
Of blithering idiots who chose to stand before you
And read aloud, what ever they chose to write.

So being an idiot, I have chosen to blither a while,
And test your patience on this occasion when
Richard Patrick Gibbons is bemoaning the last
Of his seventy fifth year of life and dreading the
Start of the seventy sixth, while I am ending the
Seventy sixth and beginning the seventy seventh.

Old friend, (both meanings are intended)
A gala fete, such as this, is held
Not so much in celebration of our lives
As a celebration of the continuation of our memories..
Which gives me an occasion to recall the words
Of an unconscious poet of my acquaintance
of superior years and perhaps wisdom, who wrote,
"I can remember when I was a real person",

Whatever her occasion was, some have occurred to me
and so that line ran right through me. Surely, you have stood, as I have,
And watched some comely lady barely glace
And step to the side and pass as though you
Were some kind of unexpected post in the path.

I don't know which is worse, being so readily ignorable,
Or see them as they see your glance and wonder whether
To have you tossed in vile durance as a common ogler.

I can remember, when dressed to our nines,
You like some sleek black clad hood from the hill,
And me in a brown checked jacket like s second rate pimp
From the seedy corners of Fremont could stand
In the stag line at the Four Stop, or The Trianon, or the Spanish Castle,
Or some such low dancing dive and need only smile,
And slide away to dance and drink and maybe more

You can remember. And the remembrance is all,
But does what we recall bear quite as much semblance of fact
As we wish it to? Old friend,
I've talked to my brothers when both were alive
And they told me tales which they swore were true
And I would have sworn not. Friend of my youth,
And now my old age, does that occur to you? Do you
Recognize yourself in you brothers' and sister's tales?
It little matters. Neither you nor I have ever let a little
Matter of fact spoil a good tale.   An old quote occurs to me-=
The Icelandic principle I believe it's called—
"it is impossible to exaggerate the unimportance of everything."

Hesiod, that old crank from the age of Virgil and et cet.
Wrote the definitive poem on old age—one line
I'll give to saffron this disquisition-
"only a fool stays to test the rigors of old age,"

Then, "since we are mortals, we are fools,"
Let us march in Mark Twain's parade, fools
As well as cowards. Past our three score and ten.
Since we can't drink beer any more, you, old fellow,
Can't even have neer beer, because you can't have brewers yeast,
While I am allowed that, despite diabetes, because of the hops,
Which are good for that condition, let us raise our mugs
In our toast with whatever libation suits us most

You, with water I suppose, since even wine has
a little residue of fermentation, and I with coffee,
which has, over the years, stunted my growth.
And since the remembrance is all, let me
Remain as green in your remembrance,
As you remain in mine. And as proof,
If any were needed, that we do indeed march
In the Missourian's ages long parade, and,
Since there's yet some paper on this page,

I'll tell a little tale, green even yet, some fifty years
Later, in your memory. It was a dark and cold night,
Not a twentieth of a mile from the Salmon River
Tongue of the Great Bear ice field, where we were
Sitting in the glare of the Coleman lamp
When we heard some noises from our garbage dump,
Not far from our door. Were we wise, and say,
"oh,well" and leave the door shut? Things that go
"Bump in the night", seldom come indoors unless invited.

Not us. you opened the door. What we saw was
Two little red eyes, red from the glare of our lantern,
And four others, closer to the ground. Then somebody
Said something, though we didn't speak the language,
That translated, in our ears, as.
"Shut the goddammed door! Can't you see that the light
Bothers the eyes of my cubs?"

Did we remember that we had a lever action 44/40
Fully loaded right at the door? Did we even think of contesting the ground?
No, no. I was afraid of pissing her off and I think you might have been also,
Cause you slammed that door, I doused the glim,
And we held that door firmly and put a two by four across it.
As if that would have done any good..
We didn't go out till morning, when our bladders were about to burst

Thus, with banners flying, affirming our right to leading positions
In Mr. Clemens' eternal march. The folly part we illustrated
by opening the door in the first place.
Howsomever, our mothers had trained us right. We closed the door
When we were told to and kept in the light

And now at last, I've come to an end,
"Thank god," sigh all in unison, whether they believe, or not.
And raise my coffee mug, by now lukewarm. And say,
"Here's to you, Richard Patrick, may all your tales and
your poems, never, as I have done, bore your audiences"

                      el Moose

amd there it is.I hope youv'e had the leisure to peruse it and don't count it a waste of time that you have.

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