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-   -   YOO-HOO!...Carla ! (http://www.derbytrail.com/forums/showthread.php?t=19993)

Mortimer 02-07-2008 07:37 AM

YOO-HOO!...Carla !
 
Now I know you peruse these pages you stealthy little nymph...you.


I will be summering in Billerica this year and wondered if we could get up a game or two of PattyCake-BakersMan.


Let me know,Dahling.


KISS-KISS

Mortimer 02-07-2008 08:23 AM

Was that necessary?


You know...it's rapscallions like you who make some of our Nerdy Trails experiences sour.


If you choose to continue acting like a pork sausage then I shall have no choice but to report you to the proper authorities.


Good day,sir.

























:p

Mortimer 02-07-2008 10:53 AM

I guess some children must have their fun.





But I have another real treat for you all this afternoon.

I shall read for you Walt Whitman's delightful epic poim......Song of Myself.




I should hope this reading goes uninterrupted.

Sightseek 02-07-2008 11:10 AM

O Captain! My Captian! is my favorite.

Mortimer 02-07-2008 11:52 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by Sightseek
O Captain! My Captian! is my favorite.


God.







I do appreciate your exuberance over Mr. Whitman's fine work...but as I said I am reading Song of Myself.




I begin.






Let's have absolute quite so those who are looking foward to this reading may enjoy it.








I begin.










Did I mention---oh never mind.









I begin.









Song of Myself,

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

Mortimer 02-07-2008 11:54 AM

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun
by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the
sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout
joyously from the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a
good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-
kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far
west, the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly
smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large
thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins,
his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held
his bride by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight
locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd
to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him
limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured
him,
And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and
bruis'd feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave
him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his
awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and
ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and
pass'd north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the
corner.

Mortimer 02-07-2008 11:56 AM

( Isn't this wonderful?)



Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long
hair,
Little streams pass'd over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended trembling from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with the pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 11:57 AM

Actually LeBron James is the author of Song of Myself. He is all things!!!! (Whitman just channeled him in the future.)

Mortimer 02-07-2008 11:57 AM

WEAPON, shapely, naked, wan!
Head from the mother's bowels drawn!
Wooded flesh and metal bone! limb only one, and lip only one!
Gray-blue leaf by red-heat grown! helve produced from a little seed
sown!
Resting the grass amid and upon,
To be lean'd, and to lean on.

Strong shapes, and attributes of strong shapes--masculine trades,
sights and sounds;
Long varied train of an emblem, dabs of music;
Fingers of the organist skipping staccato over the keys of the great
organ.


Welcome are all earth's lands, each for its kind; 10
Welcome are lands of pine and oak;
Welcome are lands of the lemon and fig;
Welcome are lands of gold;
Welcome are lands of wheat and maize--welcome those of the grape;
Welcome are lands of sugar and rice;
Welcome the cotton-lands--welcome those of the white potato and sweet
potato;
Welcome are mountains, flats, sands, forests, prairies;
Welcome the rich borders of rivers, table-lands, openings;
Welcome the measureless grazing-lands--welcome the teeming soil of
orchards, flax, honey, hemp;
Welcome just as much the other more hard-faced lands; 20
Lands rich as lands of gold, or wheat and fruit lands;
Lands of mines, lands of the manly and rugged ores;
Lands of coal, copper, lead, tin, zinc;
LANDS OF IRON! lands of the make of the axe!

Mortimer 02-07-2008 11:59 AM

Quote:

Originally Posted by horseofcourse
Actually LeBron James is the author of Song of Myself. He is all things!!!! (Whitman just channeled him in the future.)


All right now.......I'm pretty upset here as things were moving quite richly until you decided to interrupt with your nonsense.




Now we are going to have to start all over again.

Mortimer 02-07-2008 11:59 AM

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:00 PM

Thsi is getting quite boring already.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:00 PM

ONce upon a midnight dreary....

Mortimer 02-07-2008 12:00 PM

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun
by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the
sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout
joyously from the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a
good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-
kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far
west, the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly
smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large
thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins,
his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held
his bride by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight
locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd
to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him
limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured
him,
And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and
bruis'd feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave
him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his
awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and
ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and
pass'd north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the
corner.

Mortimer 02-07-2008 12:02 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by horseofcourse
ONce upon a midnight dreary....

What is your primary malfunction here,sir?

Do you think you're amusing?





Well you're not. Now stop it this instant because we have a LONG way to go here.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:02 PM

Mortimer pondered weak and weary....

Mortimer 02-07-2008 12:02 PM

Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their long
hair,
Little streams pass'd over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended trembling from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the sun,
they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with the pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:03 PM

over many a quaint and curious derby trail stupid thread....

Mortimer 02-07-2008 12:04 PM

Well I've had about enough of this tomfoolery.

I shan't continue our reading . So go ahead Mr. Funnyman....I'll give you all the time you require to make a complete fool of yourself.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:06 PM

Lenore.....

I'm done. go ahead with your reading now. I'm finished.

rapping...rapping...tapping...tapping....

Ok...now I'm finished.

I think.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:08 PM

I'm only 8,461 posts behind you now...I have to do lots of this to catch up I think.

ok...I'm done now.

I think.

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:10 PM

could I request a readin' of "The Lorax" by Ted Geisel??

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:12 PM

could I request a piano recital as well???

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:14 PM

ok...I think I've made the complete fool of myself now. Proceed with the Lorax. Thank you.







....cliff lewis. your're still recvering from that one!!!

horseofcourse 02-07-2008 12:25 PM

...everyone, everyone needs a Thneed....something like that plus lots more.

c'mon morty proceed. You're being very rude here. Acquiesce to my request here. I ordered you to do a reading here.

Mortimer 02-08-2008 07:57 AM

^^^ Grafitti cubist.


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