September 29, 2004
FEELING MY LONGFELLOW
Under a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands
The smith, a mighty man is he,
with large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
I can't say as much for the dewy lads I'm associated with there, but thanks.
That's one of my all-time favorite poems. Maybe having the name "Smith" has something to do with it, but I think it's more than that.
Posted by: Acidman at September 29, 2004 10:35 PMIf you don't stop polishing the VelociJohnson..., you're gonna go blind.
Posted by: BryanH at September 29, 2004 10:42 PMYou know, Rob, there's a scene in Stanley Elkin's novel George Mills wherein a blacksmith goes into his barn, strips naked, and dons his leather apron. He then goes up to his horse's hindquarters and tickles her ass until she sprays shit all over him while he murmurs "The smith... a mighty man is he..."
Gives one a whole new take on Longfellow, and, curiously, you.
You see something WRONG with that?
Posted by: Acidman at September 30, 2004 10:13 AM