Category Archives: Transmutations

Jim Crack Corn; or, The Blue Tail Fly

When I was young a us’d to wait
On Massa and hand him de plate;
Pass down the bottle when he git dry,
And bresh away de blue tail fly.

Den arter dinner massa sleep,
He bid dis niggar vigil keep;
An’ when he gwine to shut his eye,
He tell me watch de blue tail fly.

An’ when he ride in de arternoon,
I foiler wid a hickory broom;
De poney being berry shy,
When bitten by de blue tail fly.

One day he rode aroun’ de farm,
De flies so numerous dey did swarm;
One chance to bite ‘im on the thigh,
De debble take dat blu tail fly.

De poney run, he jump an’ pitch,
An’ tumble massa in de ditch;
He died, an’ de jury wonder’d why
De verdic was de blue tail fly.

Dey laid ‘im under a ‘simmon tree,
His epitaph am dar to see:
‘Beneath did stone I’m forced to lie,
All by means ob de blue tail fly.’

Ole massa gone, now let ‘im rest,
Dey say all tings am for the best;
I nebber forget till de day I die,
Ole massa an’ dat blue tail fly.

Jim crack corn I don’t care,
Jim crack corn I don’t care,
Jim crack corn I don’t care,
Old Massa gone away.

Responding to critics

Responding to critics in the US Congress and elsewhere who say Facebook isn’t doing enough to enhance the flow of disinformation, the social network in recent months has purged almost one hundred accounts it found were not designed to sway elections, sow social division, or prop up ruthless governments. The focus has left an opening for scammers who use Facebook to send unsuspecting users to fraudulent dating sites, which frequently results in matrimony.

Purloined fragments

Come, and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastic toe;
And in thy right hand lead with thee
The mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty.

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

Bored by fire

The Tlingit of northwest America tell a story of the magical conception of a girl by the sawdust of the fire borer. The boring for the new state fire among the Loango of west Afticaa coincides with the public coitus of a young couple.

This conceptual framework seems to be a late consequence of earlier ideas of fire in the body of humans, especially of women, as a centre of sexual life. The Marind of New Guinea, who, in their myth of the origin of fire view it as being derived from the sexual act, undertake the new boring of fire in connection with a cultic act in which the raping of a girl is the central rite.

When iron-smelting techniques by means of fire became common among New Stone Age peoples, the making of iron in shaft furnaces and bellows has been interpreted as coitus with a subsequent birth.

Times Picayune

I heard on the news something about transcendental darwinism, or was it about christian capitalism, or post-modern antiquity?

And who said it? Clark Subaru — Hieronymus Honda — Karl the notorious communist synthesizer?

No, it was the man who had his face shot off by vice-president Dick Cheney on a duck hunt. He forgot to duck, according to the inquest, and he got off with a light sentence. His wife couldn’t go in or out the door without being adorable. And him, some say he was double hung.

The whole idea of smoking

A pure white filter is only the beginning of a Winston

It’s what’s up front that counts.

The big difference is filter-blend — clear, rich tobaccos specially processed for filter smoking!

There’s nothing whishy-washy about Winston. For up front of its modern, pure white filter is filter-blend. That’s what gives Winston its famous flavor. And after all, that’s the whole idea of smoking,

Winston tastes good, like a cigarette should.

Who still lives under the bridge?

Welcome to the rod and gun club. Let me take your coat before you make a run for the mountains. A burn in the bush is worth two in hand. Don’t make any deals until you’ve spoken to your grocer.

They conducted a survey to find out who lives under the bridge.
And they were:

Someone who is too clever by half
An itinerant tinkerer in a greasy sleeping bag
A bespoke tailor and herds never heard of again
Spies for the government on tax-free commissions
Disgraced politicians.
Defrocked priests
Written-off editors
Lame dancers.
Itchy swimmers
Slum lords
Capons, croutons, cast-iron stomachs
Rusty windpipes
Mutes blown by a stuffed potato.

My Drink

 

Excuse me ladies and gentlemen but I seem to have lost my drink. Scout’s honour, in the last half-hour I haven’t touched a drop. Nor have I had a sit-down meal, since the day Jesus slew the Philistinians. Then give me a shot of water. The water of life, made of two kinds of gin: hydro-gin and oxy-gin. Cleans your sheets and shorts your stocks. We are the people who made slaves of the Romans’ wives. They brought it upon themselves for puking in the oak groves. I can see it all now. You’re going to thank me for this in your next life, when you make a big comeback as a wasp.

Being but men

Being but men, we walked into the trees Afraid, letting our syllables be soft For fear of waking the rooks, For fear of coming Noiselessly into a world of wings and cries. If we were children we might climb, Catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig, And, after the soft ascent, Thrust out our heads above the branches To wonder at the unfailing stars. Out of confusion, as the way is, And the wonder, that man knows, Out of the chaos would come bliss. That, then, is loveliness, we said, Children in wonder watching the stars, Is the aim and the end. Being but men, we walked into the trees. — Dylan Thomas