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Politics : Right Wing Extremist Thread -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Neeka who wrote (30419)	11/21/2002 9:42:20 PM
From: ManyMoose	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 59480

In my world, Cremation of Sam McGee is the most frequently memorized poem. Here's my absolute favorite poem of all. I've met the author and he's one of my heroes. I think he may be dead now. He lived in Hope Idaho. I love this poem because it's about me, not me specifically, but my spirit. Longing for the hunt, longing for participation in life. I've lived this poem in fact and over and over in my mind and heart. The Acid Test By Paul Croy Take a man, if you'd know him well, To a lean-to of bark and poles; Sleep on the ground and eat plain grub, And cook on a bed of coals. You'll come to know what he really is, Not just what he seems to be; You'll plumb the depths that are camouflaged By his personality. If the weather's bad and the bedding's damp, And the grub tastes of kerosene; If he doesn't kick, and he wants to stay-- But wait!--is your own slate clean? Here's another, I have trouble deciding which of his I love most, and there are many others. Longing for life, longing for the hunt, introspection. Meat In The Pot by Pauy Croy I've a lever action carbine there a hangin' on the wall And it's sixteen years of service She has seen; Her steel is all worn shiny and her stock and grip are marred But her rifled bore will polish Bright and clean. I've packed her til I miss her when I take a trip with out her, And leave her hanging' home upon her rack, And like as not I'll need her to kill some sneakin' varmint That seems to know I've left er at the shack. I've packed her on a thousand hunts, in clear and fallin' weather, And the blame for missin's mine to place it fair. For there's never been an instance when she failed to "meat the pot." If I crooked my trigger finger sightin' hair. I've sort of got a notion that she feels the same as me, And thrills when game is close and up the wind; And I find myself a talkin' to her-- mostly of an evenin', When I'm lonesome and the light of day has dimmed. There's a fund of tallish stories I could tell of trails we've travelled, But they'd mostly need her word to prove them so, And she never talks of conquests she and I have taken, But backs her little thunders up with blood upon the snow. Well, there's no more meat a-hangin' from the rafter on the porch, But there's plenty on the ridge above the shack; So we'll angle up the timbered slope and "jump" them where they're bedded, And roll us up another set of tracks.