Sunday, October 30, 2005

Scooter Rider on the Storm 

I. Lewis Libby takes to pen and the further composition of chivalric poesy:

Scooter rider on the storm
Scooter rider on the storm
Into the White House he was borne
Into a whirlwind he is thrown
Like an arc without a Joan
A sling without a stone
Scooter rider on the storm

There's a Miller on the road
Her brain is squirmin’ like a toad
Take a long and tacit turn
Watch the aspens churn
If ya give this witch a ride
Sweet Yellowcake will fly!
Miller on the road.

Girl ya gotta love your source
Girl ya gotta love your source
Watch him on the stand
Take the reprimand
The world on this depends
Our thing will never end
Gotta stay the course.

Scooter riders on the storm!



Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augered the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin? ~ Cormac McCarthy Blood Meridian

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