An enjoyable stay while in exile from Hurricane Laura. All the staff at the Midlothian Marriott Courtyard are very friendly and helpful. I was up at dawn for that first cup of coffee and met Leto, one of the many nice folks who work in this hotel.
Thursday, August 27, 2020
The Juggler of Midlothian (Midlothian Marriot Courtyard, Desk Clerk Leto)
An enjoyable stay while in exile from Hurricane Laura. All the staff at the Midlothian Marriott Courtyard are very friendly and helpful. I was up at dawn for that first cup of coffee and met Leto, one of the many nice folks who work in this hotel.
Tuesday, August 25, 2020
"Now Tell Me Again the Things We're Against" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
She told us that she had truly been saved
Her new life of freedom had now
commenced
Then she turned to a co-religionist and
raved
“Oh, tell me again about the things we’re
against!”
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“Now Tell Me Again the Things We’re Against”
She told us that she had truly been saved
Her new life of freedom had now
commenced
Then she turned to a co-religionist and
raved
“Oh, tell me again about the things we’re
against!”
Monday, August 24, 2020
"Make Sure all Your Devices are Fully Charged" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Nothing about a storm respects our trifles:
A flashlight is no good against the rain
A MePhone cannot block a falling tree
A watch cannot divert wild thunderbolts
“Make sure all your devices are fully
charged”
A wireless doorbell cannot stop the wind
A radio cannot swim to save its life
A tablet cannot operate a boat
A laptop is quite unable to float
“Make sure all your devices are fully
charged”
That’s thin advice when facing the eternal:
Nothing about a storm respects our lives
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“Make Sure All Your Devices
are Fully charged”
are Fully charged”
Nothing about a storm respects our trifles:
A flashlight is no good against the rain
A MePhone cannot block a falling tree
A watch cannot divert wild thunderbolts
“Make sure all your devices are fully
charged”
A wireless doorbell cannot stop the wind
A radio cannot swim to save its life
A tablet cannot operate a boat
A laptop is quite unable to float
“Make sure all your devices are fully
charged”
That’s thin advice when facing the eternal:
Nothing about a storm respects our lives
Sunday, August 23, 2020
What Toppings Would You Like on Your Hurricane Cone? - poem for 23 August 2020
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Two cones? I’d rather just one. Vanilla
And Maxwell Smart’s Cone of Silence was
fun
I had to sort out conic sections in math
But cones like that are lacking in good
taste
And now two cones are moving up the
coast
Maybe tomorrow they’ll move back down
again
While we stack toilet paper and MREs
Perhaps the ice cream truck’s an ice cream
float
No one knows if the cones are there or
here –
That’s pretty much a metaphor for this
year
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
What Toppings Would You Like
on Your Hurricane Cone?
on Your Hurricane Cone?
Sunday, 23 August 2020
Two cones? I’d rather just one. Vanilla
And Maxwell Smart’s Cone of Silence was
fun
I had to sort out conic sections in math
But cones like that are lacking in good
taste
And now two cones are moving up the
coast
Maybe tomorrow they’ll move back down
again
While we stack toilet paper and MREs
Perhaps the ice cream truck’s an ice cream
float
No one knows if the cones are there or
here –
That’s pretty much a metaphor for this
year
Saturday, August 22, 2020
John Milton Title Page, MePhone Photograph
Of your kindness please pray for the repose of
Professor Huston Diehl
of happy, happy memory -
A true scholar and a wonderful teacher
University in the Virus-Time - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
I don’t know if you should put down your
glass
Or even stub out that late-night cigarette
But please know that a more rebellious
vice
Lies in an understanding of Paradise Lost
(Although blind Milton was genocidal…)
And it takes courage and humility
To get all naughty with quadratic
equations
Or slip between the sheets and cuddle up
With Augustine, Euclid, Plato, or Keats
(I would never date a math course, of course…)
Many are called to university
But few are chosen – so choose to learn
yourself 1
(Pssssst – Cliff’s Notes, okay? Just don’t tell anyone...)
1 That there are three meanings is deliberate
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
University in the Virus-Time
The sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer, or a man alone reading a book that interests him.
-C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
glass
Or even stub out that late-night cigarette
But please know that a more rebellious
vice
Lies in an understanding of Paradise Lost
(Although blind Milton was genocidal…)
And it takes courage and humility
To get all naughty with quadratic
equations
Or slip between the sheets and cuddle up
With Augustine, Euclid, Plato, or Keats
(I would never date a math course, of course…)
Many are called to university
But few are chosen – so choose to learn
yourself 1
(Pssssst – Cliff’s Notes, okay? Just don’t tell anyone...)
1 That there are three meanings is deliberate
Friday, August 21, 2020
What's the Buzz? - rhyming doggerel
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Mosquitoes at humans must smugly smirk
They plot all day long and hide in the mud
Then as the sun sets, in bushes they lurk
And when you pass by, they drink all your
blood!
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
What’s the Buzz?
Mosquitoes at humans must smugly smirk
They plot all day long and hide in the mud
Then as the sun sets, in bushes they lurk
And when you pass by, they drink all your
blood!
Thursday, August 20, 2020
Yevgeny Yevtushenko Admires Himself - weekly column
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Recently I finished a book only half-remembered from my youth, Yevtushenko’s A Precocious Autobiography.
I had no idea that a poet I had long admired was such a, well, jerk. He claims to have been a championship table-tennis player, that he could have been a professional soccer player, that he mastered ju-jitsu and can beat anyone up and that he is afraid of nothing, that everyone failed to understand his brilliance as a poet while simultaneously admiring him for his brilliance, that the Soviets picked on him even while flying him all over the world to represent the Soviet Union and proudly assert his Communism, and that he who would later earn lots of money and own at least two homes airily disapproved of money like a good comrade.
A photograph in the book is labeled “Yevtushenko and Galya at the home of the former Luftwaffe General Huebner” but an admittedly quick search through the InterGossip does not indicate that there was any such person.
The famous first line of his autobiography is “A poet’s autobiography is his poetry.”
Yevtushenko accuses Arthur Rimbaud of having been a slave trader when in fact there is no evidence for it (Rimbaud was certainly bad enough in other ways, including being an arms dealer). Yevtushenko also claims to be a sophisticated art critic and patronizes other cultures and peoples in unfortunate and sometimes offensive language. He faults Western nations for their failings (and fair enough) but ignores the seventy years of horror and mass executions and mass incarcerations and the genocidal mania of the Communist Revolution. Oh, and Lenin was a good fellow; Communism would have worked had not Stalin betrayed the Revolution.
And so it goes, for 124 self-serving pages.
Perhaps Yevtushenko’s most famous poem is “Babiy Yar” (there are variant spellings in English even by Yevtushenko himself), admitting the Russian / Ukrainian silencing of the Nazi massacre of some 34,000 Jews in the Babi Yar ravine near Kiev in two days in 1941, with thousands of more Jews as well as Roma, prisoners of war, Russians accused of partisan activity, the mentally ill, and others. Possibly some 100,000 people were murdered there in the Nazi time, and there may have been Russian / Ukrainian compliance. After the war the Communists downplayed the Jewish focus. Yevtushenko is praised for his courage in bringing up the matter, but the reality is that he could not have published that poem without the permission of the Communist government, and perhaps on their orders.
In this short poem Yevtushenko refers to himself in first-person pronouns at least 27 times, making Babi Yar about himself.
Given all this, I recommend the book highly. Yes, it really is interesting, but as with the most gaseous old man in the corner down at the diner you can’t rely upon his veracity.
Beyond that, Yevtushenko’s poetry is fascinating. I have no Russian, and while the standard for Russian poetry is rhyming iambic tetrameter, I don’t know how he structured it, but the content is brilliant.
Also brilliant is his anthology, 20th Century Russian Poetry (he doesn’t neglect to give himself lots of space in it).
Yevtushenko admires himself, but, yes, there is much to admire.
Peace to you, Yevgeny, you old rascal; you’ll always be one of my favorites.
Mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Yevgeny Yevtushenko Admires Himself
Only in Russia is poetry respected –
it gets people killed. Is there anywhere else
where poetry is so common a motive for murder?
-attributed to Osip Mandelstam
Recently I finished a book only half-remembered from my youth, Yevtushenko’s A Precocious Autobiography.
I had no idea that a poet I had long admired was such a, well, jerk. He claims to have been a championship table-tennis player, that he could have been a professional soccer player, that he mastered ju-jitsu and can beat anyone up and that he is afraid of nothing, that everyone failed to understand his brilliance as a poet while simultaneously admiring him for his brilliance, that the Soviets picked on him even while flying him all over the world to represent the Soviet Union and proudly assert his Communism, and that he who would later earn lots of money and own at least two homes airily disapproved of money like a good comrade.
A photograph in the book is labeled “Yevtushenko and Galya at the home of the former Luftwaffe General Huebner” but an admittedly quick search through the InterGossip does not indicate that there was any such person.
The famous first line of his autobiography is “A poet’s autobiography is his poetry.”
Yevtushenko accuses Arthur Rimbaud of having been a slave trader when in fact there is no evidence for it (Rimbaud was certainly bad enough in other ways, including being an arms dealer). Yevtushenko also claims to be a sophisticated art critic and patronizes other cultures and peoples in unfortunate and sometimes offensive language. He faults Western nations for their failings (and fair enough) but ignores the seventy years of horror and mass executions and mass incarcerations and the genocidal mania of the Communist Revolution. Oh, and Lenin was a good fellow; Communism would have worked had not Stalin betrayed the Revolution.
And so it goes, for 124 self-serving pages.
Perhaps Yevtushenko’s most famous poem is “Babiy Yar” (there are variant spellings in English even by Yevtushenko himself), admitting the Russian / Ukrainian silencing of the Nazi massacre of some 34,000 Jews in the Babi Yar ravine near Kiev in two days in 1941, with thousands of more Jews as well as Roma, prisoners of war, Russians accused of partisan activity, the mentally ill, and others. Possibly some 100,000 people were murdered there in the Nazi time, and there may have been Russian / Ukrainian compliance. After the war the Communists downplayed the Jewish focus. Yevtushenko is praised for his courage in bringing up the matter, but the reality is that he could not have published that poem without the permission of the Communist government, and perhaps on their orders.
In this short poem Yevtushenko refers to himself in first-person pronouns at least 27 times, making Babi Yar about himself.
Given all this, I recommend the book highly. Yes, it really is interesting, but as with the most gaseous old man in the corner down at the diner you can’t rely upon his veracity.
Beyond that, Yevtushenko’s poetry is fascinating. I have no Russian, and while the standard for Russian poetry is rhyming iambic tetrameter, I don’t know how he structured it, but the content is brilliant.
Also brilliant is his anthology, 20th Century Russian Poetry (he doesn’t neglect to give himself lots of space in it).
Yevtushenko admires himself, but, yes, there is much to admire.
Peace to you, Yevgeny, you old rascal; you’ll always be one of my favorites.
-30-
An August Day - But on What Planet? - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An August day of dragging hoses, washing
dishes
Watching hummingbirds while doing the
laundry
Pulling up the last exhausted tomato vines
Feeding the dogs and cats, mowing the
lawns:
The summery hours of heat and work and
sweat
Considering the clouds and praying for
rain
Enjoying the way the light falls on the
grapes
And marveling how green the grass still is
And in the evening a glass of iced tea
And then the news –
What planet are they on?
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An August Day – But on What Planet?
An August day of dragging hoses, washing
dishes
Watching hummingbirds while doing the
laundry
Pulling up the last exhausted tomato vines
Feeding the dogs and cats, mowing the
lawns:
The summery hours of heat and work and
sweat
Considering the clouds and praying for
rain
Enjoying the way the light falls on the
grapes
And marveling how green the grass still is
And in the evening a glass of iced tea
And then the news –
What planet are they on?
Wednesday, August 19, 2020
Among Jacobins - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A connection is not a surrender -
When we connect we exchange, we give
and receive
Ideas, jokes, poems, questions, a bit of
gossip
Cheesecake recipes and garden vegetables
But to deny the self is to cease to be
And nothing is left but an echoing, hiving
We
Galvanic responses instead of thoughts
Useful, obedient, disposable
Among the Jacobins there are no ideas
No poetry, no questions – only obedience
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Among Jacobins
“…the thoughts and feelings of each individual who really exists
are unique and cannot be duplicated.”
-Yevtushenko
A connection is not a surrender -
When we connect we exchange, we give
and receive
Ideas, jokes, poems, questions, a bit of
gossip
Cheesecake recipes and garden vegetables
But to deny the self is to cease to be
And nothing is left but an echoing, hiving
We
Galvanic responses instead of thoughts
Useful, obedient, disposable
Among the Jacobins there are no ideas
No poetry, no questions – only obedience
Tuesday, August 18, 2020
Virtual Candidate Drop - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission...For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear.
The Party faithful gather together as one
Because there is only one; I am alone
In unison roaring with the comrades who
Except as Zoomies may not even exist
Conventions meet in the aether this year
On glowing screens in isolation rooms
Not much point to a funny hat or tie
Or a drop of flickering CGI balloons
The candidates are chosen! O let me sing
And party with a solo pierce-and-ping!
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Virtual Candidate Drop
There is nothing wrong with your television set. Do not attempt to adjust the picture. We are controlling transmission...For the next hour, sit quietly and we will control all that you see and hear.
-The Outer Limits, 1963-1965
The Party faithful gather together as one
Because there is only one; I am alone
In unison roaring with the comrades who
Except as Zoomies may not even exist
Conventions meet in the aether this year
On glowing screens in isolation rooms
Not much point to a funny hat or tie
Or a drop of flickering CGI balloons
The candidates are chosen! O let me sing
And party with a solo pierce-and-ping!
We now return control of your television set to you…
Monday, August 17, 2020
Colonel Klink and his Gonculator - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Colonel Klink’s machine was the very first
But not the last; the twentieth century
Bequeathed unto us The Gonculator
An electronic curse to blight our lives
With beepings and rumblings and flashing
lights
It wants our thoughts, our words,
our dreams, our souls
Twisting and misshaping our imaginings
With vaporous fantasies of packaged gods
It calls us from our work and recreations
And bids us stare into it, and believe…
Believe, believe…
We believe, O Gonculator, and we obey!
The story of Colonel Klink, that classic Miles Gloriosus, and his primitive prototype can be found on the gonculator that possesses you:
https://hogansheroes.fandom.com/wiki/Gonculator
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Colonel Klink and his Gonculator
Colonel Klink’s machine was the very first
But not the last; the twentieth century
Bequeathed unto us The Gonculator
An electronic curse to blight our lives
With beepings and rumblings and flashing
lights
It wants our thoughts, our words,
our dreams, our souls
Twisting and misshaping our imaginings
With vaporous fantasies of packaged gods
It calls us from our work and recreations
And bids us stare into it, and believe…
Believe, believe…
We believe, O Gonculator, and we obey!
The story of Colonel Klink, that classic Miles Gloriosus, and his primitive prototype can be found on the gonculator that possesses you:
https://hogansheroes.fandom.com/wiki/Gonculator
Sunday, August 16, 2020
And Now Four Fingers of House Scotch - a Diptych or a Dipstick or something...
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
1. Two Fingers of House Scotch
A bartender should be paunchy and
middle-aged
His oldest kid in college, the youngest in
jail
Cigarettes in five ashtrays down the bar
His name is Blue; nobody knows just why
If there must be a woman behind the bar
Let her name be Sophie or Maud or Toots
Makeup slapped-on, her hair dyed
trash-fire red
She misses stripping at the Flamingo
Frank Sinatra once bought her a drink,
yeah, true
But now she kinda has a thing for Blue
2. Six Centimeters of House Scotch
A bartender programmed by MicroPlop
Prototype to a braking system that failed
Disposable batteries smoking, on fire
Its model number is Hey You B-52
It remembers a third-party vendor by
name
What is the gender for a robot bartender?
Hey, big spender, is that a credit card?
Or maybe you’re just happy to code me
And the programmer who hacked it out of
plot
It’s rather like a lust-crazed coffee pot
https://www.heraldmailmedia.com/news/nation/goodbye-to-bartenders-robots-could-soon-make-your-drink/article_e24e2abf-0b1f-51df-b6b5-b79da01e0ff1.html
mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Two Fingers of House Scotch –
a Diptych or a Dipstick or Something
1. Two Fingers of House Scotch
A bartender should be paunchy and
middle-aged
His oldest kid in college, the youngest in
jail
Cigarettes in five ashtrays down the bar
His name is Blue; nobody knows just why
If there must be a woman behind the bar
Let her name be Sophie or Maud or Toots
Makeup slapped-on, her hair dyed
trash-fire red
She misses stripping at the Flamingo
Frank Sinatra once bought her a drink,
yeah, true
But now she kinda has a thing for Blue
2. Six Centimeters of House Scotch
A bartender programmed by MicroPlop
Prototype to a braking system that failed
Disposable batteries smoking, on fire
Its model number is Hey You B-52
It remembers a third-party vendor by
name
What is the gender for a robot bartender?
Hey, big spender, is that a credit card?
Or maybe you’re just happy to code me
And the programmer who hacked it out of
plot
It’s rather like a lust-crazed coffee pot
https://www.heraldmailmedia.com/news/nation/goodbye-to-bartenders-robots-could-soon-make-your-drink/article_e24e2abf-0b1f-51df-b6b5-b79da01e0ff1.html
Saturday, August 15, 2020
Two Fingers of House Scotch - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A bartender should be paunchy and
middle-aged
His oldest kid in college, the youngest in
jail
Cigarettes in five ashtrays down the bar
His name is Blue; nobody knows just why
If there must be a woman behind the bar
Let her name be Sophie or Maud or Toots
Makeup, her hair dyed trash-fire red
She misses stripping at the Flamingo
Frank Sinatra once bought her a drink,
yeah, true
But now she kinda has a thing for Blue
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Two Fingers of House Scotch
A bartender should be paunchy and
middle-aged
His oldest kid in college, the youngest in
jail
Cigarettes in five ashtrays down the bar
His name is Blue; nobody knows just why
If there must be a woman behind the bar
Let her name be Sophie or Maud or Toots
Makeup, her hair dyed trash-fire red
She misses stripping at the Flamingo
Frank Sinatra once bought her a drink,
yeah, true
But now she kinda has a thing for Blue
Friday, August 14, 2020
But is it True? - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Then:
Proletariat bourgeoisie egotistical
Calculation labor capital revolutionary
Theory freedom of speech people’s army
Specter of Metternich capitalist hyenas
Now:
Visual aesthetic frank discussion
Defund decolonize decommission
Assumptions unpack the conversation
Re-imagine emerging non-profits
Transcendent:
The Good, the True, the Beautiful
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
But is it True?
How was it possible for even gifted and intelligent people to be deceived?
-Yevtushenko, A Precocious Autobiography, p. 74
Then:
Proletariat bourgeoisie egotistical
Calculation labor capital revolutionary
Theory freedom of speech people’s army
Specter of Metternich capitalist hyenas
Now:
Visual aesthetic frank discussion
Defund decolonize decommission
Assumptions unpack the conversation
Re-imagine emerging non-profits
Transcendent:
The Good, the True, the Beautiful
Thursday, August 13, 2020
Mi Corazon - weekly column
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A friend and I were enjoying a now rare lunch occasion at Flying J / Denny’s-Limited-Menu-Wear-a-Mask along the interstate. The food was fine, as always, but the place was corona-time dreary, with tables spaced far apart, half the booths marked off with yellow plastic CAUTION tape, old acquaintances among the staff now missing, few patrons, and sadly quiet, but then, much of life is dreary just now.
As we were finishing our meal and our catching-up, the restaurant manager walked by slowly with an elegant, elderly lady on his arm.
“This is my son,” the elegant lady said to us. “Don’t you think he is handsome?”
We agreed that he was, and he smiled proudly, patted his companion on the arm, and said, “Mi Corazon.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“My heart,” he replied.
And she said to him, “My heart too.”
Gentle readers, you may now say, “Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”
The elegant lady told us that she and her husband had come to this restaurant often, and now that he had died she would have to go live with her sister in Mississippi. In the meantime, she visited the restaurant as often as she could to take a meal and visit with all the staff, whom she happily claimed as her children.
As her favorite child, the manager was granted the honor of escorting the elegant lady to her car after her meal.
The elegant lady looked at my friend and said, “You would make a great son.”
She did not say anything about me.
And then she gently chided my friend with, “You need to finish your lunch.” With children of the Depression and the Second World War, finishing your meal is not only a patriotic duty but a religious one.
Gentle readers, when was the last time your mom told you to finish you lunch?
We wished the elegant lady every happiness, and with great dignity and pride the restaurant manager carefully walked her to her car, with everyone on staff telling her “Good-bye” and “See you tomorrow.”
I just thought you would want to know.
Yes, much of life is dreary just now, but there are those elegant souls – and their adopted favorite sons - who have a gift for un-drearying things and reminding us how good life is, how good people are.
Mhall46184@aol.com
Mi Corazon
A friend and I were enjoying a now rare lunch occasion at Flying J / Denny’s-Limited-Menu-Wear-a-Mask along the interstate. The food was fine, as always, but the place was corona-time dreary, with tables spaced far apart, half the booths marked off with yellow plastic CAUTION tape, old acquaintances among the staff now missing, few patrons, and sadly quiet, but then, much of life is dreary just now.
As we were finishing our meal and our catching-up, the restaurant manager walked by slowly with an elegant, elderly lady on his arm.
“This is my son,” the elegant lady said to us. “Don’t you think he is handsome?”
We agreed that he was, and he smiled proudly, patted his companion on the arm, and said, “Mi Corazon.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“My heart,” he replied.
And she said to him, “My heart too.”
Gentle readers, you may now say, “Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.”
The elegant lady told us that she and her husband had come to this restaurant often, and now that he had died she would have to go live with her sister in Mississippi. In the meantime, she visited the restaurant as often as she could to take a meal and visit with all the staff, whom she happily claimed as her children.
As her favorite child, the manager was granted the honor of escorting the elegant lady to her car after her meal.
The elegant lady looked at my friend and said, “You would make a great son.”
She did not say anything about me.
And then she gently chided my friend with, “You need to finish your lunch.” With children of the Depression and the Second World War, finishing your meal is not only a patriotic duty but a religious one.
Gentle readers, when was the last time your mom told you to finish you lunch?
We wished the elegant lady every happiness, and with great dignity and pride the restaurant manager carefully walked her to her car, with everyone on staff telling her “Good-bye” and “See you tomorrow.”
I just thought you would want to know.
Yes, much of life is dreary just now, but there are those elegant souls – and their adopted favorite sons - who have a gift for un-drearying things and reminding us how good life is, how good people are.
-30-
A Statue of our Favorite War Hero - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Let us build a statue of Sergeant Schultz
Standing bravely at the door of Baracke 2
With a bouquet of flowers in one mighty
hand
And a slice of apple strudel in the other
And on the base let there be deeply
engraved
“In war I do not like to take sides”
On the reverse we will write, “I see
nothing!”
And then perhaps on the sides,
“Ach du liebe!”
Let us build a statue of Sergeant Schultz
On earth’s last ever battlefield
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Statue of our Favorite War Hero
Let us build a statue of Sergeant Schultz
Standing bravely at the door of Baracke 2
With a bouquet of flowers in one mighty
hand
And a slice of apple strudel in the other
And on the base let there be deeply
engraved
“In war I do not like to take sides”
On the reverse we will write, “I see
nothing!”
And then perhaps on the sides,
“Ach du liebe!”
Let us build a statue of Sergeant Schultz
On earth’s last ever battlefield
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