The lamer and the flamer. A parable.
Once there was a lamer.
Then there was also a flamer, nostril flared, who talked briefly when he dared.
The lamer cried his cry, oh! woe! the end of the world is nigh! All our values are becoming dry!
Cried the flamer, pshaw! we have technology for that and graphs on high, -- never fear lamer, and cease your prattle cry, you would think the world would die! Progress changes man! Our eco-ethic is our armour from the winter wind! We need not relics of our distant past, our new dollar-collar priests have the spell of future free from want -- in their sceptered hand!
Cried the lamer once again, still pusillanimous am I, for I fear the priests have hand in pocket and account, like we were their boarding school boys and had to pay for sex. This depreciation has me vex. On my worth they have put a hex. A suit is needed to put and end to their ways of sleight of hand and make our old relics once again shiny and bright and in plain sight!
For I tell you no story of woe, in this there are two houses divided and will be for evermore.
The lamer bows to relics and scorns the augury of yore.
The flamer squints at chicken tracks, in habit of robes galore, preaches the balance of trade by lore.
But both their ships anchor in the same shallow bay. Storms will toss them should they ever on the sea foray. |
