Monday, January 5, 2009



Hope is that thing with feathers that -
flaps around -
squawking -
About how bloody valuable it is and -
Craps on your hair -
the -
minute -
you get a hold of it.

P.D.Q. Dickinson
aka Doug Palmer January 2009


Lane Savant said...

Butch, Imagine my surprise to have found this on my comments from several days ago.

Somehow she knew this would happen.

"I had an awful premonition that you are going to be making fun of me in a few days.
I just want you to know that I will take it in the spirit in which it is intended.
That is to say you feel so inadequate in the light of my talent that all you can do is poke fun.
I hope you can take this in the spirit in which it is intended.
That spirit is...
Bite me, undercooked meat product!


Isn't that spooky?

Anonymous said...

It is spooky, odd too. Emily hardly ever prognosticates. She is too busy looking for a man, or a professor of lesbonics.

.......Edgar A. Poo

butch said...

Be nice, Poo. Emily is the sensive type. I love it when she calls you a troll or loveless dwarf. Actually you are the Rodney Dangerfield of the classics, little appreciated, still striving for respect in the rawness of this world.