Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas to lull the weewabbit to sleep ? ? ?
Yeah, whazzup with dat?? Now here is a proper bunny bedtime story....it ain't yer average Beatrix Potter though:
Binkle Bunny in
A Short One.
Dave Barlow sat in front of the desk regarding his psychiatrist, happy that the man believed him to be fully recovered from the stress related breakdown that had so recently plagued him. Well now he could leave the hospital and return to normal life fully armed to take on anything the world could throw at him. Or so he thought. "Well Mr Barlow, if you have any problems at all, don't hesitate to call me." The doctor put out his hand and Dave shook it vigorously. "Thank you doctor, but I think I'll never have any problems ever again." The doctor smiled in satisfaction as Dave Barlow left his office. Neither man realized what fate had in store for Dave. One man who had taken on a crusade against insanity. One man who had put his upside down mind to rights against all the odds. A man who was about to enter........The Binkle Bunny Zone.
The saloon car hummed peacefully along the road at a relaxing pace. Not too stressful, not too slow. Presently he passed a village sign for Cummington. Just on his right hand side, he spotted a pub. "I could do with a spot of lunch." he thought out loud. The car rolled on to the car park and pulled up just by the pub sign. No picture adorned the sign, just words. "The Cummy Todge?" Dave spoke laughingly. He wasn't aware of it, but the fact that he was now talking to himself meant that the place was already grinding at his synapses. He parked up and went inside.
He walked through the doorway and felt a gust of warm atmosphere hit him. Taking this for a green flag of safety, he walked up to the bar. A girl was checking a list and she had her back to Dave. She had longish brown hair which suggested a certain sweetness about her. "Hhehemm!" Dave coughed to get her attention. She turned around and hit him with features that were not displeasing, but features that just weren't quite human. In fact, if he were stupid enough to believe in such things, she looked like an elf. "I AM an elf!" she exclaimed and then added coarsely: "What do you want?" Dave was taken aback because it was almost as if the girl had read his mind. Of course, this couldn't be true. "I'll have a...." Fauna started writing the order down and spoke out loud, unaware that the man had now shut up and she was taking the words straight from his head. "Cheese and onion sandwich, with side salad and a pint of ice cold lager. Anything else?" Dave was totally bemused. "Er..I'll have the mushroom soup please." He paid her up and sat down.
He was just tucking into his soup when all of a sudden, a terrible noise errupted from the far side of the lounge. "Neeeyaaaagh cum ere ya little bastard!!" He looked towards the disturbance to find what looked like a furry robot rabbit jumping across the table wielding a baseball bat. It appeared to be chasing a huge black airborne thing that looked to be a fly, but was far too large. A big black football with wings was a better description. What Dave failed to take into account was the proximity of the Cummington nuclear power station. The power station kept denying rumors of any radiation hazards and Mother Nature was blamed for throwing up anomalies such as eight legged cattle, glow at night squirrels, the vampire rat-bat-cats and giant bluebottle flies that kept pestering people and in some cases, mugging them of food.
Dave watched as the rabbit was suddenly on his table. A dull thunk resounded across the room as the baseball bat made contact with the offending fly. The mad insect began to buzz in anger. "Neeyaaaargh ya bassar! That'll teach ya!!" Binkle explained as he jumped onto another patrons table. Dave Barlow looked down at his now flat cheese sandwich. Then he looked at all the other patrons in the pub. Non of them had taken the slightest bit of notice to what had just transpired. Turning his attention back to the soup, he noticed that his right eye had started to twitch. He was just tucking back in again when the rabbit suddenly reappeared but this time, he was running away from the humungus bluebottle. The reason for this was apparently that the fly now had hold of the baseball bat and was using all six legs to swing it at the unruly cyborg. "Aaaargh! Gerrof me! Gerrof me!" he yelled. The bat made a series of clangs errupt from Binkles reinforced metal cranium. Dave suddenly dived behind his table at the sound of someone cocking a shotgun. A loud bang shook the room and the fly dropped the bat, falling out of the air in a steep dive. It landed in something with a splosh. Gingerly, the man glanced over the table and across to where Fauna was standing with a smoking pair of barrels. "What's wrong rabbit? Don't they teach you how to kill flies at moron school?" Binkle snapped back: "Neeyaagh shut the **** up you pointy faced cow!" Then, within the blink of an eye he was screaming as Fauna dived over the bar and jumped on him. "Er....excuse me." Dave spoke quietly. Fauna and Binkle stopped in mid punch and glanced across at him, fists raised but stopped exactly where they were. "Yes, can I help you sir?" Fauna enquired politely. Mr Barlow considered the obscurity of his next sentence and a familiar feeling of madness came over him as he heard himself say: "There's a fly in my soup." Fauna glared at the man for a few seconds before saying: "Excuse me, but can't you see I'm busy?" Before he could reply Fauna and Binkle resumed their scrap.
Dave Barlow sat back down, his eye twitching persistently. "Oh I'll drink my lager then." he muttered trying to convince himself that everything was ok. He sat watching Fauna trying to bite Binkles ear off, he sat in disbelief. Suddenly the doors burst open and a horse trotted in with a fox sitting on it. Dave watched while trying to supress a stupid giggle. The horse trotted up to the bar and pulled up short, having a quick **** on the carpet while it waited. The fox shouted: "Excuse me terribly please, could I have some service?!" Fauna got off the top of Binkle who was making a wierd kind of wittering noise. She went behind the bar, a number of scratches were visible on her face. "Sir Charlesworth, what can I get you?" The fox glanced at the optics. "I'll have a jolly good old fashioned gin and tonic please. What about you horsey?" The horse replied: "I'll have a bucket of water please." Fauna looked surprised. "What? Only one bucket?" She went about getting the drinks and then she told the horse: "We don't get many horses in here." The horse snorted: "I'm not surprised at these prices." Dave sat there on the very edge of sanity, trying hard to make sense of all this. It was then that Ned burst into the lounge with a flamethrower. "This'll clean that horseshit up!" he yelled and set about scorching the carpet with a jet of flame. Fauna jumped over the bar armed with a soda syphon yelling "Neeyaargh ya thick tit!" while spraying the floor with a jet of water. Father Rowley burst in at this point yelling "Nyaaargh ya bunch of pagans!!" and began beating Ned about the skull with the coconut "Welcome" mat from the front doors of the pub.
Just a man who had pulled his synapses back from the cliff edge of insanity, just one soul who had taken on mental disorder and come out the victor. Until now. Dave Barlow cracked and suddenly the red mist descended. His eyes darted to the fire axe that was by the door, put there conveniently by the author. Foam appeared around his mouth as he ran up to the case and smashed the glass front. Holding the weapon like an old friend, his eyes glazed over as he yelled: "Neeyaargh the pudding the pudding!" and started axing the tables to pieces. Mrs Cleethorpes calmly downed her glass of wine and stood up in a very prim and proper ladylike fashion. Then, gripping the back of her chair in a well practised manner, she walked up behind Dave, who had cornered the vicar and was gibbering: "It's the lesser spotted skylarks you know! They're asking for it they're all asking for it!" She smashed the chair over the back of Daves head and shouted: "Bill please! Table eight!"
Binkle, Fauna, Ned, Father Rowley, Sir Roderick Charlseworth, his horse and Mrs Cleethorpes looked on as the man was stretchered off, wrapped in pipe tape to stop him hurting anyone. "The custard men from Saturn! They're here again! They really are! You've gotta believe me!" Binkle shook his head. The whole cast walked sadly back into the bar. "What a ******* screwball." Horsey commented to Sir Charlesworth. The fox had to agree. "Yeees. It's very sad to see people go over the edge like that." Then he suddenly whooped and ran head first into a concrete pillar by the bar yelling "The frozen peas! The frozen peas!"
Just a man who had found peace of mind. Just a man who should have been happy now for the rest of his days. Just a poor individual who had found....The Binkle Bunny Zone.
The End.
I keep my clothes neatly separated in two piles. One pile is marked 'dirty.' The other is marked 'dirty, but wearable.' Saves a lot of bother.
Third pile - really, really dirty (usually kept outside)
Okay...I was just kidding...it's the laundry that's piling up, not the clean clothes. They are indeed in drawers or hung up. Also, can't have mother over, I live on the 10th floor and might get tempted...
My biggest fear is the pile labelled 'dry clean only'...that's a sushi dinner for the cost....and Binkle Bunny rocks!
Oh my! Apart from the wee matter of the teensy weensy inappropriateness of Thomas' poem as a LULLABY, I am overcome! Speechless! Cav! Hiama! Wow!
Did you Binkle Bunny yourself, Cav?
Thud!
Well, the lullaby was an original piece. I was going to do an original Binkle Bunny story, but I found that one, and it just seemed to fit.
I knew the lullaby was! And a lovely lullaby it is, too.
dlowan wrote:Msolga - what can you be talking about? Spring HAS arrived in Southern Australia!
Oh.....you mean MELBOURNE?!! Don't be silly - move to Adelaide!
Maybe I should, dlowan? It's most likely warmer, PLUS Assie Rules football isn't QUITE the religion it is here ... yet!
God its boring! Groin injuries, torn hamstring muscles, etc, etc, etc ... and the endless pre-match, post-match discussions in the media, at work, in the shops ....
Cricket is starting to look good to me, right now! At least it's warm then!
Footbrawl!!!! Yecccchhhhhhhh!
Dear Auntie Lowan:
Last night I dreamt a really weird dream. I dreamt I was visiting Venice (Italy, not California) and all the streets were flooded. What does this mean?
[signed]
Banned in Boston
It means you truly, really did visit Venice, if you did not already know the streets were flooded!
Wow! Merry has astral travelled!!!!!!
Dear Auntie Lowan:
I watched some of your footie the other night, and, with all due respect, you don't hit each other very hard. The eye-gouging is all well and good, but couldn't your lads deign to occasionally spear somebody with their head? I find a low likelihood of serious spinal injury really diminishes my interest in sport.
Sincerely,
It's been raining for 36 hours and the back yard is turning into a swamp and I'm sick of it
P.S.: Why can't this Mary Rand Rue spell it's own name properly?
What sort of footy was it? Aussie Rules, or soccer, or rugby? They shove fingers up each others' bottoms in rugby! It is called a date.
I watch none of them, me ownself.
Merry spells to his own infinite satisfaction, thankee verily much.
Er - was that the thought?
No, that's pure drivel. You'll reconize a though by it's remarkable crystalline quality. Anything that just aggregates in a chaotic, amorphous splat is just the continuing degradation of the godhead to the messy endstate of existence -- what physicists call soup but mystics have always referred to, peculiarly, as "pudding." Those mystics are a strange bunch. Mister Tick is a nice man, but his daughers were, I think, traumatized by the early death of Mrs. Tick -- or Loretta, to her friends and enemies...
