Five...

..... I spent the largess of yesterday dodging sporadic rainstorms, sweatily grooming a decrepit rosebush, and pouring over the latest reconnaissance photos that my Father in Law has been sending me.....

.... evidently this September's vacation shall be spent in the Tuscany region of Italy, and he is busily searching for a villa that is suitable enough for us to sip gins and tonics in... fine work if you can score it, I suspect....... but me?..... well, I am contenting myself in the arms of amateur horticulture and slowly perfecting my ability to swat errant horseflies whist dressed as a Sandanista gardener...... actually, I am probably the only gentleman in my neighborhood who dons combat boots and olive drab to battle Nature's Horde....... but then, well, I've never really been much of a flip-flop kind of guy.......

..... anyway, since today promises more of the same that the last few days has offered - and since there truly IS no rest for the proverbial wicked - I'm off to sweat in the lawn once again....... but I shall leave you with a poem that has been on my mind while I toiled with hand-trowel and sweaty brow........

...... enjoy, gentle rubberneckers....... and may your day be filled with iced drinks and foot massages.......

Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals gray;
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;
And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropp'd into the western bay;
At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

.... anyone care to guess the author of the above?........

.... I'm off...... for the wages of a lawn-slave await.....

by Eric on June 11, 2010 | Bullshit (2) | TrackBack (0) | Poetry
Bullshit So Far

Ah, who doesn't love Milton.

Bullshitted by K-Nine on June 11, 2010 09:47 AM

My swain, couth or otherwise seldom sing.

Bullshitted by Cappy on June 12, 2010 07:59 AM