Sunday, July 13, 2014

The tiny wee land of Wuzimomojangobango

In the tiny wee land of Wuzimomojangobango
The peoples from birth they all learned the tango
It freed them from bondage they grudgingly bore
To the nuclear forces who dwelt just next door

The tango was viewed with disdain by the world
Those immodest gyrations were insults well hurled
They belittled the tyrants of commerce and wealth
Who felt that good morals were crucial for health

They used to roam freely, Wuzimomojangobangonies
Their foodstuffs had flavour to wet your bagonies
Garnishing protein with hot chile and dill
This culinarian refinement it needed no pill

But their lands were begrudged them, all desert and salt
A strategically yearned homeland, it was all their fault
For tangoing ceaselessly and valuing laisser aller
A consort of legions over took them with stealth and with valour

They fought back by dancing with passion quite delirious
Till rounding them up with their livestock was imperious
To scuttle them all to some boundaries marked clearly
With fences of barbed wire subdued them not nearly

Canons they fired, “Wuzimomojangobango” they cried
Human canon balls sailed forth from wherever they could hide
And landing they tangoed in the now alien land
Subverting the children of the tyrants new stand

Foul play called the tyrants while covering their faces
Betwixt firing the tango balls back to their places
But the children where blemished beyond any repair
They sat by the barbed wire and just had to stare

Now god he was chuckling at all this fine passion
And in his great wisdom he was smitten to fashion
A great duster which swallowed up all the barbed wire
A huge ugly pile it consumed mile after mile

Pulled up to the heavens this demolished encumbrance
Heaven's artists constructed a sinful inductance
Twas the Wuzimomojangobango tango erected with care
Shameless dancers dancing naked half a league in the air

It set down so gently with vibes of great stealth
In the midst of the constructs of power and wealth
This monster just oozed out it's moral depravity
Would take years to unseat natures pull on it's gravity

Chaos ran rampant and now our Wuzimomojangobangonies
Grew rich feeding hot spices to drench the bagonies
Of tyrants unfettered to tango with passion unbinding their will
To beleaguer the good earth with their nuclear swill

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

Eulogy to my good buddy

Handy Randy got caught with your pants down?
Hope you repented in the divine nick of time
The devil won't care over which way you venture
You caused enough heartache in your earthly adventure

Your cat lost his marbles when they covered your carcass
His rampage was ample to deflate the mortician
They called in the exterminator to salvage your shroud
But claws ripped the screened door to avoid an indictment

We will miss you our good bud when we're low on our vittles
To the food bank you'd venture to take in the sermon
Although preachers turned red faced when you mooned them politely
While stuffing your undies with all the good treats

Your rise in your calling was more than exemplary
No locksmith could thwart your quick use of a hairpin
Though cops were befuddled when gathering evidence
That all that went missing was doughnuts and pie

The eagles are circling to take your freed spirit
The vultures are eyeing your cheap shoddy casket
Was all we could gather us vagrant type cadgers
With a sign on the corner read 'help bury a bro'

Rest in peace, good bud

Sunday, July 6, 2014

A hint of this, a hint of that

We may be working on a doctorate in criminology, although this would cater to hints of our schizophrenia, trying to figure out how cons communicate through blogs, how to keep away followers, what works and what doesn't. But hinting at these sorts of things may actually produce traffic into our little peaceful and tranquil delusions, which may hint that we need major surgery with just a hint of lobotomy. So we'll take our hints to a different level.

Like the hint of mildew in your salad there is a hint of paranoia in many things we undertake these days. There is the not unfounded hint of discomfort of a stranger speaking to our children or grandchildren. A hint of awkwardness can prevail when you try to joke with uniformed security personalities and they show no response to your pleasantries. Even God can apparently get downright obnoxious with you if you even hint at frigging around with his omnipotence. Yes, some days you really wonder whether you are up to leaving your secure abode to open your soul to the fury and vengeance of the post good old days. At least you know the out come of vague hints that may undo the charms of your better half.

But even in our secure abode, laptop en-lapped, blogging away, hints of self doubt rise like clouds over the mountain tops of utter self confidence. Thoughts of our security forces ability to crack the codes of our unconscious keystrokes condemning us to the hints of ostracism which their no fly list can parlay on the unsuspecting adventurer sneak into our gooey grey matter. Much better to resort to the old diary and keep it locked up in the attic. It gives your more time if you leave it up there to set it on fire if there's the hint of a tribe of heavily armed combatants blending into the shadows of your scenic front yard.

So we close this little post with a hint of melancholy, that emotion along with paranoia, which reaches far into psychs of mammalians, as we forgo all hints and simply tell you your fly is wide open.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Freight train number 9

 (c) 1957 by Elizabeth Cotten. Sanga Music
Freight train, Freight train, run so fast
Freight train, Freight train, run so fast
Please don't tell what train I'm on
They won't know what route I've gone
When I am dead and in my grave
No more good times here I crave
Place the stones at my head and feet
Tell them all that I've gone to sleep.

When I die, Lorde, bury me deep
Way down on old Chestnut street
Then I can hear old Number 9
As she comes rolling by.

Went for our walk this evening and we stopped by Timmies for a small coffee. It's a small Timmies, mostly a drive through, no tables, just one end of a convenience gas bar, in the lively west end of Winnipeg which our present federal party of vast majority considers a non conservative ghetto. There were three of us waiting for the nice lady to take the cars orders, cause us walk ins just don't have the ranking of them well wheeled folk. The older gentleman first in the sort of a line had a guitar, and when he finally got to order he picked up his instrument and played and sang us this tune whilst he was awaiting his caffeine fix. He was a class act with his little belly and his cotten picking was of merit.

As we sat having our coffee on the eveningly deserted picnic table of a local business on a side street, also eveningly deserted, watching the local rabbits trimming the lawn, memories came back of our childhood and the main CN rail line which ran less than a quarter mile from our farm yard. They still ran the odd steam locomotive down that track and the local water tower wasn't demolished till we turned at least ten. We'd often sit on the hill and wave to the engineers who would always blow the whistle for us. Many people today are kept awake by trains, but for us the sound of a good long freight rumbling by just a whistling for the crossings is music to our ears and the greatest sound in the world to put us to sleep. Wouldn't mind either to be buried deep near a railway line.

Tuesday, July 1, 2014

Silly Harper, silly Putin, silly Angra Mainyu

This blog post is for our several readers in the great country of Russia. Peace be with you. Why you would indulge in our fribbling ambiances is beyond us, perchance to brush up on western Canadian idiosyncrasies, but to reward your curiosity we will give you our insight into the melodrama harrowing our bull headed great leaders. This view may not represent the view of the 25% of Canadians who elected our present majority government, nor will it much more represent the view of any of the rest of us.

At the age of 30, Zoroaster received a revelation. While Zoroaster was fetching water from dawn for a sacred ritual, he saw the shining figure of the yazata, Vohu Manah, who led Zoroaster to the presence of Ahura Mazda, where he was taught the cardinal principles of the Good Religion. As a result of this vision, Zoroaster felt that he was chosen to spread and preach the religion. He stated that this source of all goodness was the only Ahura worthy of the highest worship. He further stated that Ahura Mazda created spirits known as yazatas to aid him, who also merited devotion. Zoroaster proclaimed that all of the daevas were bad spirits and deserved no worship. These "bad" spirits were created by Angra Mainyu, the hostile and evil spirit. The existence of Angra Mainyu was the source of all sin and misery in the universe. Zoroaster claimed that Ahura Mazda was not an omnipotent God, but used the aid of humans in the cosmic struggle against Angra Mainyu. Nonetheless, Ahura Mazda is Angra Mainyu's superior, not his equal. Angra Mainyu and his daevas (spirits) which attempt to afflict humans away from the path of righteousness (oasha) were just silly and would eventually be destroyed. (This is just to complicate the neat pic).

As Prime Minister Stephen Harper was pouring vitriol and sanctions on Russia for months over the Crimea and Ukraine crisis, he did not seem to have expected much of a serious slap-back from President Vladimir Putin. Just as many feared, Canadian F-18s are yet again being sent screaming towards our northern airspace to see off large Russian Tu-95 heavy bombers testing our borders. The word in official circles is that this is “strategic messaging from Moscow” in retaliation for our constant criticism, as well as Canada’s actions to bolster Ukraine, which has just signed an historic trade pact with the European Union that Putin has fought against. The fly-overs have certainly shaken complacency in Ottawa. Defence minister Rob Nicholson told Parliament recently the flights show “the need for ongoing vigilance” as Russian military activity continues in the Arctic. Ottawa didn't anticipate payback. What’s surprising is our surprise. Ottawa did not seem to anticipate such retaliation, even though Russian air probes are an easy and cost-effective way for Putin to harass our defences as payback for our anti-Putin stand in Europe.

We here all rather suspect that our dear Prime Minister is just plain jealous of Putin's ability to influence the throws of the cosmos, and probably also his ability to win election after election. Really, Canada can do little to .... We don't even have a pipeline to ship our sour crude to Europe if they get cut off from the Russian empire. And at last report the railway line to the Port of Churchill, our oil terminal of least resistance, was shut down because a load of toilet tissue was just too heavy for the muskeg.

So Angra Mainyu and his daevas in their silly quest for hostility and evil have afflicted our also silly great leaders away from the path of righteousness. Ahura Mazda's yazatas are presently aiding Pussy Riot and Canada's Elizabeth May among others in the fight for righteousness. By remote viewing, although we are just learning the intricacies, we have ascertained that Putin will, in the not to distant future, become a member of Pussy Riot, and Harper will convert to the Green Party of Canada, and our two countries will share the arctic as the new Atlantis with global warming and all, a cosmic wide victory for righteousness.

In our yearnings for rectitude we leave you with the hope and courage of Aleksandr Blok's poem "Why, Why Forever..."

Why, why forever to the deadly line
I’m pushed unpityingly by blows of the Fortune?
Whether all this, including life of mine,
Are only moments of the endless torture?
I want to live, tho’ heart hasn’t joy inside,
And happiness is just a tale to know,
But I am called in distance by some light,
And it is seemed, that I can have its glow.
Maybe, ‘tis just a spirit – this far blaze!
Maybe, my hopes are lost any ground!
But there – afar, in the unearthly space,
Its rays are ever beautiful and proud!