Something is rotten in the state of…

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Rotten Fish

Something is rotten, written in the state of the nation: The polls; the liar media’s conspiracy with the far left wing of the left wing Democrats to push Obama’s second term on Americans; the apparatus of big government and big finance working in tandem to install a dictator in perhaps the last US election that will ever appear to be free.

When you’re lost in the wild, and as scared as a child
And Death looks you bang in the eye 

I do not expect the Republican Party to drag this out the same way that Democrats would. The party aristocracy believe they can hang on to something of value. Right now I am at my nadir. I’m going to take a while to ready myself for the political and economic realities that will all-too-soon form an oppressive atmosphere of state micromanagement of everything in these United States. I suspect many of us are thinking the same things.

And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But I’m not ready to give up entirely. I have three young lives to keep me going, plus God over us all.

But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.

In the meantime, hearken to the words of one of the last of the great poets of the English language, one who wrote poems that could be songs, who came from Scotland but expressed the wild freedom of Alaska and the wilderness better than any American poet since Whitman. He was incredibly popular during his lifetime, but is now remembered only in Alaska and by the warrior scholars of the US Military. His name was Robert W. Service, and if you don’t know it you should learn it.

The Quitter

When you’re lost in the Wild, and you’re scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you’re sore as a boil, it’s according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: “Fight all you can,”
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it’s easy to blow . . .
It’s the hell-served-for-breakfast that’s hard.

“You’re sick of the game!” Well, now that’s a shame.
You’re young and you’re brave and you’re bright.
“You’ve had a raw deal!” I know — but don’t squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It’s the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don’t be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit, it’s so easy to quit.
It’s the keeping-your chin-up that’s hard.

It’s easy to cry that you’re beaten — and die;
It’s easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope’s out of sight —
Why that’s the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each gruelling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,
Just have one more try — it’s dead easy to die,
It’s the keeping-on-living that’s hard.

Rhymes of a Rolling Stone. Robert W. Service. Toronto: William Briggs, 1912; New York: Dodd Mead, 1912; London: Fisher Unwin, 1913.

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nessa
Editor
November 8, 2012 1:06 pm

“Once
more into the fray. Into the last good fight I’ll ever know. Live and
die on this day. Live and die on this day.”

Wolves are metaphors.