Picking up attitudes.
Picking up attitudes and other such things. The story is told about one who was seen doing a crossword puzzle. Halfway through the puzzle, she came across a four-letter word to muzzle. The given clues said something that is usually found at the bottom of the pigeon coop. (Or even at the bottom of it, in truth, yes, the chicken's coop) It could be found there too, but oops. The last two letters were already in the four-letter word slot.
Those were the letters "i," and "t." "Easy like that, you see." She said this to herself, not me. While filling in the slots and continuing along with the rest of the puzzle, to please me. Somewhere near the finishing point of the puzzle, though. She ran smack dab into a problem on the slow go, no? "Yes." Something was wrong because, try as she may, she couldn't find the right words to properly fill in the remaining blocks that day.
But upon some quick revisions, she was to find that everything fits like a hand-in-glove when she'd inserted "g, and r," with lots of love, into those slots in front of the "i," and the "t." as said above. That was, after she was done with erasing and replacing: the "g", and the "r" where "s" and "h" were previously inserted, in their respective places. Of course, both words seemed to fit perfectly well into the slot and the given clues.
But one is correct, which means the other is not. One was the right answer. The other was, in fact, wrong, Sir. One is soft, malleable even, the other is rough and tumble and can be durable too. One is tender and cushy; the other is hard and coarse. More or less like some of us are, of course. Yeah! That would be us. This motley fool even, and the chorus. The soft one, anything soft, can seem so very attractive to the class, lovable to some, perhaps.
Apparently, easy to work with, inviting, and friendly. The hard ones, though, not so much so, with Hensley. One may add a little soft powder to the hard one and throw in bits and pieces of strong metals such as steel here and there, add water and mix well, and one could build something as strong and durable as? well. Like, something that will be able to last for decades, centuries, even. What can one do with the other mushy stuff?
Not very much, so stay away from it, or you might wake up somewhere down the road ten thousand years from now to find the overload, like, finding out that you're still full of ?it. Yes, man. Still full of that soft, mushy pot of shi? If one, under those same circumstances, should somehow manage to live and survive that long, sis. So, of those two things that are sitting there at the bottom of the pigeon coop, which one do you want when you reach in there for the poop? No, leave it (as is) and go, boo.
Get something while you're in there, though, whatever you do, do get something. Then get your assuming bits and pieces out again. Pieces such as your arms, and length, with that other piece. Well, if you had stuck it in there too, for long, like this. Long time nuh see you, "buddy." Let's go to the feast, cuddly. Whatever "it" is, though, get it back out of there and get on with the business of life, living with what you'd fished out when you'd reached in that night.
I became aware of some things early in my life. Well, early is relative here, so, let's say earlier; earlier than most other folks, or a certain kind of "other folks," warming themselves there by the fire and smokes. I quickly learned some things, and that was why I stuck it out this long with him. I had to get one of those things from among the things that were there at the bottom of the pigeon coop.
I saw them there when I was tossed in, (or was it me who had jumped in?) I don't even know for sure, my home friend. Whatever the case might have been, though, I was there, and I saw them below, I knew which one I wanted. I took hold of the hard one, the most difficult one in the ordeal. The one that most, if not all of the others who had gone in there, didn't want. They were quick to dismiss it from under the plant. But as for me?
I took hold of the hard one and stuck it out this long. See? No regrets so far, my star. Well, a little bit of that type, maybe, on the roads of hot tar. A few of the "regrets" here and there, yes. But not enough for me to write home about, my dear, at the old address. Well, I guess? It doesn't matter much to me anymore, though, like, what people might say, how they feel about me, or even how they play.
How much they may try to disenfranchise me, get back at me, mock me, spill me even. If only I got a chance to do what I was born to do or was called to do in the evening, curfew. I'm a winner after all. We're all alike after all this, in a few ways, and this right here is one of the surest of the few upon which to gaze, over beers. We all will die, so, death to me, is not revenge. It's not vengeance, or even settling of the accounts with them.
It's not because I did (or didn't do) those things, why I died. If that is the case, then, why are you dead? Because even though you don't know it in your head, yet, that's where you are, mi bred, fret because you're already dead. What have you done with your life that you can even hope to leave here on this earth to live on after you, like, after you're done gone too? Shouldn't that be the thing for you to be thinking of above all else, and to focus on, mostly? Or is it? What do I know? Oh, sheet! Just asking, Bro Boasey. To be continued.
WritingElk.
Picking up attitudes and other such things. The story is told about one who was seen doing a crossword puzzle. Halfway through the puzzle, she came across a four-letter word to muzzle. The given clues said something that is usually found at the bottom of the pigeon coop. (Or even at the bottom of it, in truth, yes, the chicken's coop) It could be found there too, but oops. The last two letters were already in the four-letter word slot.
Those were the letters "i," and "t." "Easy like that, you see." She said this to herself, not me. While filling in the slots and continuing along with the rest of the puzzle, to please me. Somewhere near the finishing point of the puzzle, though. She ran smack dab into a problem on the slow go, no? "Yes." Something was wrong because, try as she may, she couldn't find the right words to properly fill in the remaining blocks that day.
But upon some quick revisions, she was to find that everything fits like a hand-in-glove when she'd inserted "g, and r," with lots of love, into those slots in front of the "i," and the "t." as said above. That was, after she was done with erasing and replacing: the "g", and the "r" where "s" and "h" were previously inserted, in their respective places. Of course, both words seemed to fit perfectly well into the slot and the given clues.
But one is correct, which means the other is not. One was the right answer. The other was, in fact, wrong, Sir. One is soft, malleable even, the other is rough and tumble and can be durable too. One is tender and cushy; the other is hard and coarse. More or less like some of us are, of course. Yeah! That would be us. This motley fool even, and the chorus. The soft one, anything soft, can seem so very attractive to the class, lovable to some, perhaps.
Apparently, easy to work with, inviting, and friendly. The hard ones, though, not so much so, with Hensley. One may add a little soft powder to the hard one and throw in bits and pieces of strong metals such as steel here and there, add water and mix well, and one could build something as strong and durable as? well. Like, something that will be able to last for decades, centuries, even. What can one do with the other mushy stuff?
Not very much, so stay away from it, or you might wake up somewhere down the road ten thousand years from now to find the overload, like, finding out that you're still full of ?it. Yes, man. Still full of that soft, mushy pot of shi? If one, under those same circumstances, should somehow manage to live and survive that long, sis. So, of those two things that are sitting there at the bottom of the pigeon coop, which one do you want when you reach in there for the poop? No, leave it (as is) and go, boo.
Get something while you're in there, though, whatever you do, do get something. Then get your assuming bits and pieces out again. Pieces such as your arms, and length, with that other piece. Well, if you had stuck it in there too, for long, like this. Long time nuh see you, "buddy." Let's go to the feast, cuddly. Whatever "it" is, though, get it back out of there and get on with the business of life, living with what you'd fished out when you'd reached in that night.
I became aware of some things early in my life. Well, early is relative here, so, let's say earlier; earlier than most other folks, or a certain kind of "other folks," warming themselves there by the fire and smokes. I quickly learned some things, and that was why I stuck it out this long with him. I had to get one of those things from among the things that were there at the bottom of the pigeon coop.
I saw them there when I was tossed in, (or was it me who had jumped in?) I don't even know for sure, my home friend. Whatever the case might have been, though, I was there, and I saw them below, I knew which one I wanted. I took hold of the hard one, the most difficult one in the ordeal. The one that most, if not all of the others who had gone in there, didn't want. They were quick to dismiss it from under the plant. But as for me?
I took hold of the hard one and stuck it out this long. See? No regrets so far, my star. Well, a little bit of that type, maybe, on the roads of hot tar. A few of the "regrets" here and there, yes. But not enough for me to write home about, my dear, at the old address. Well, I guess? It doesn't matter much to me anymore, though, like, what people might say, how they feel about me, or even how they play.
How much they may try to disenfranchise me, get back at me, mock me, spill me even. If only I got a chance to do what I was born to do or was called to do in the evening, curfew. I'm a winner after all. We're all alike after all this, in a few ways, and this right here is one of the surest of the few upon which to gaze, over beers. We all will die, so, death to me, is not revenge. It's not vengeance, or even settling of the accounts with them.
It's not because I did (or didn't do) those things, why I died. If that is the case, then, why are you dead? Because even though you don't know it in your head, yet, that's where you are, mi bred, fret because you're already dead. What have you done with your life that you can even hope to leave here on this earth to live on after you, like, after you're done gone too? Shouldn't that be the thing for you to be thinking of above all else, and to focus on, mostly? Or is it? What do I know? Oh, sheet! Just asking, Bro Boasey. To be continued.
WritingElk.
Support E. Lloyd K (The WritingElk)
