When I got this news my first thought was that I was going to be catching Poe's disease at Point Lookout.
My second thought was of an old movie scene when Ken Norton was told to get in the pot of boiling brine in front of the Big House porch...
My third thought was, "Do they realize I'm, a, well—a convicted oil driller and a seven-time honorary African American?"
My most paralyzing realization was that I might no longer be permitted to excuse my prodigious failures by citing high levels of Irish ancestry...
Then my addled mind looped back to the famously bad outcome experienced by past Confederate Marylanders and I felt the grey god rising under raven wings...
Than dawned dimly the saad fate of that Baad Stackalee...
Or have I finally lost my mind?
Thanks, guys. I'm honored to be published on a site that devotes so much to military history.
Actually, this deserves some poetics, well, on behalf of Poe...
First the Thistle,
Then the maple sprout,
Up finally the onion grass—sprang from the cracked curb brickle,
En shakin' what pass among weed kin fo ass, began ta sway and shout:
"Bitch be served,
En Cracka be curbed,
That po Pabst swigger,
Be vexin The Man like a chigger—
If you fool enough ta think I'm rhymin' da las' line wit dis line
Den you mus' be drinkin' some Pakistani wine!
Fo da sun is shinin'
Da ghetto hawk be up above pinin'
While below we drinkin' what snows
En snortin' whiskey offa da twerked-out asses a fine Atlanta hoes...
'Cause shidz all good in da neybohood."
Yep, this is the death knell.
I'll be seeing the men in sunglasses and suits for sure now.
Thanks again.
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