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Gold/Mining/Energy : Gold and Silver Juniors, Mid-tiers and Producers -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: LoneClone who wrote (7334)	3/1/2006 1:46:49 PM
From: E. Charters	Respond to of 78408

+{Use Extreme Caution.. hippy-dippy granola talk follows --} For my money, Mother Tucker's Yellow Duck, The Incredible Sloth Band, Moby Grape, or Kensington Market were as heavy as a gold brick dropped on your big toe at midnite. On the other hand I never did get to hear what the 1910 Fruitgum Company had to say during their blue period. From what I heard they were happening, man. Chewey Chewey and Yummy Yummy I Got Love in my Tummy were the essence of what Sartre categorized as the ethereal presence of the sublime, an exercise in the practical nihilism of the infinite embrace of the improbable.) A really dense aggregation. Perhaps even the equal of Guy Lombardo and His Royal Canadians playing Calypso Joe. I don't know, did I die and go to heaven or what? EC<:-} amazon.com The dance of the puppets The rusted chains of prison moons Are shattered by the sun. I walk a road, horizons change The tournament’s begun. The purple piper plays his tune, The choir softly sing; Three lullabies in an ancient tongue, For the court of the crimson king. The keeper of the city keys Put shutters on the dreams. I wait outside the pilgrim’s door With insufficient schemes. The black queen chants The funeral march, The cracked brass bells will ring; To summon back the fire witch To the court of the crimson king. The gardener plants an evergreen Whilst trampling on a flower. I chase the wind of a prism ship To taste the sweet and sour. The pattern juggler lifts his hand; The orchestra begin. As slowly turns the grinding wheel In the court of the crimson king. On soft gray mornings widows cry The wise men share a joke; I run to grasp divining signs To satisfy the hoax. The yellow jester does not play But gentle pulls the strings And smiles as the puppets dance In the court of the crimson king. The wall on which the prophets wrote Is cracking at the seams. Upon the instruments of death The sunlight brightly gleams. When every man is torn apart With nightmares and with dreams, Will no one lay the laurel wreath As silence drowns the screams. Between the iron gates of fate, The seeds of time were sown, And watered by the deeds of those Who know and who are known; Knowledge is a deadly friend When no one sets the rules. The fate of all mankind I see Is in the hands of fools. Confusion will be my epitaph. As I crawl a cracked and broken path If we make it we can all sit back And laugh. But I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying, Yes I fear tomorrow I’ll be crying.