Dear Ms Harf-wit:

6 Responses to Dear Ms Harf-wit:

1. Caleb says:

   February 26, 2015 at 21:48

   The Stranger within my gate,
   He may be true or kind,
   But he does not talk my talk–
   I cannot feel his mind.
   I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
   But not the soul behind.

   The men of my own stock,
   They may do ill or well,
   But they tell the lies I am wanted to,
   They are used to the lies I tell;
   And we do not need interpreters
   When we go to buy or sell.

   The Stranger within my gates,
   He may be evil or good,
   But I cannot tell what powers control–
   What reasons sway his mood;
   Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
   Shall repossess his blood.

   The men of my own stock,
   Bitter bad they may be,
   But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
   And see the things I see;
   And whatever I think of them and their likes
   They think of the likes of me.

   This was my father’s belief
   And this is also mine:
   Let the corn be all one sheaf–
   And the grapes be all one vine,
   Ere our children’s teeth are set on edge
   By bitter bread and wine.

   The Stranger, by Rudyard Kipling
   • KG says:

     February 27, 2015 at 01:11

     Kipling knew a thing or two. No wonder he’s so dreadfully unfashionable nowadays.
     But this poem and his ‘Mesopotamia’ are on sticky notes on my Mac’s desktop.
2. KG says:

   February 27, 2015 at 01:21

   Mesopotamia
   They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,

   The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
   
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,

   Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?

   They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain

   In sight of help denied from day to day:

   But the men who edged their agonies and chide them in their pain,

   Are they too strong and wise to put away?

   Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide–

   Never while the bars of sunset hold.

   But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,

   Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

   Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:

   When the storm is ended shall we find

   How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
   
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?

   Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,

   Even while they make a show of fear,

   Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,

   To conform and re-establish each career?

   Their lives cannot repay us–their death could not undo–

   The shame that they have laid upon our race.
   
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,

   Shall we leave it unabated in its place?
3. Darin says:

   February 27, 2015 at 02:51

   “Half-wit” is giving the dumb bitch too much credit.

   Speaking of dumb –

   http://www.washingtonpost.com/politics/foreign-governments-gave-millions-to-foundation-while-clinton-was-at-state-dept/2015/02/25/31937c1e-bc3f-11e4-8668-4e7ba8439ca6_story.html

   Insuring a government of the donors,by the donors,for the donors.
4. Contempt says:

   February 27, 2015 at 06:38

   Also: “Stories of the Confederacy” U. R. Brooks. p. 117:
   They who for their Country die
   Shall fill an honored grave
   For Glory gilds the soldier’s tomb
   And Beauty weeps the Brave.
5. Wombat says:

   February 27, 2015 at 10:34

   If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look white,
   Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:
   So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
   And wait for supports like a soldier.
   Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

   When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains,
   And the women come out to cut up what remains,
   Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
   An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.
   Go, go, go like a soldier,
   Go, go, go like a soldier,
   Go, go, go like a soldier,
   So-oldier ~of~ the Queen.

   I wonder if he ever thought we’d be stupid enough to send men back to that wretched place.