Wasn't going to get in on this esoteric, intellectually charged
discussion with my rural anecdote, then got thinking Drew deserves to
get a word in & is not a listee. I take licence from Mr Milne himself,
in "The Eclipse of the Ear", one of the Bonnes Bouches of Hector Carp,
found at jacket #3:
"...the idiocy of rural life
is certainly as refined in the groves
of academe."
Used to have a dog called Whiplash & it was definitely quasi-suicidal to
say "Meat, Whiplash?" if you had any pendant limbs in his proximity.
Neighbours in these here parts declare he was ill-used as a pup at a
cult commune of Oral-Sadistic Vegetarians in the Badlands of Alberta.
Folk there excommunicated him after he dragged (drug, as we do say
hereabouts) home a dinosaur thigh bone from the Glenbow Museum in
Calgary. Image is everything everywhere, it do seem. Whiplash died
happily watching his thirtieth rerun of Old Yeller (the canine Titanic).
But, back to Drew's poem:
"...But let us not dally
like face tourists doting on a green belt
whose prettiness is pathos. That plot is
plain flim flam."
Now, Flin Flon is in Manitoba, but that's another story.
G'night, John boy,
Pete.
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