Handley_Page
Draco interdum Vincit
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Oh no, not for me; for him ? ^^^^^
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Oh no, not for me; for him ? ^^^^^
Tio_Narratore
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vicarious pleasures
Handley_Page
Draco interdum Vincit
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JKendallDane
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SamScribble
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ForeverLaughing
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Oh, good! Tonight we eat.
http://blog.ingredientmatcher.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/03/Malta-stuffat-tal-fenek-1024x768.jpg
"Please, sir, may I have some more?"
L1tTleD1fferent
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Can't answer that question; Seems redundant or self-contradictory, since having "more" would change the total of the already-unidentified "some"/"sum".
Tio_Narratore
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logical fallacies
JKendallDane
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Tio_Narratore
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"Hi! I'm from the bank, and I'm here to help myself."
JKendallDane
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MichaelinChina
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Doctor Who.
JKendallDane
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Handley_Page
Draco interdum Vincit
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MichaelinChina
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Was going to say Mussolini...but his men were the Brownshirts weren't they?
oh and PS..."Exterminate! Exterminate!" in Dalek dialect - how DID they get that peculiar Dalek voice? Sound manipulation I guess.
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JKendallDane
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Ya alls needs to not start making no fun of them thar dialects things. Cuz I knows ya alls will bring up hows us south'ners talk funny when we dunt!
.
Handley_Page
Draco interdum Vincit
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No.
The Brownshirts were the SA; the 'paramilitary wing of the Nazi Party, headed by Ernst Rhom.
The Blackshirts were Mussolini's guys.
And Yes, the Daleks voice is electronic.
JKendallDane
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MichaelinChina
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(Just testing your knowledge about 'the shirts'.
)lol @ JKD. so funny!
Electric Kool Aid Test
JKendallDane
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(Just testing your knowledge about 'the shirts'.
lol @ JKD. so funny!
Electric Kool Aid Test
Groovy, man. Like really far out.
.
MichaelinChina
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Groovy, man. Like really far out.
.
You remember the way people spoke in the late 60's? (how did they say it in southern drawl?)
JKendallDane
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You remember the way people spoke in the late 60's? (how did they say it in southern drawl?)
I dunno. I didn't move to the south until the mid-1980's. They probably tacked "ya all" to the end.
.
MichaelinChina
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I dunno. I didn't move to the south until the mid-1980's. They probably tacked "ya all" to the end.
.
so....."Groovy, man. Like really far out, ya all."
Sounds weird and senseless.
JKendallDane
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MichaelinChina
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Well, we are talking about the south.
.
South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country, rises that tableland, high delicate outline of bony slopes wincing under the winter...
Judith Wright, Australian poet.
Here's the whole darn thang!
South Of My Days
South of my days' circle, part of my blood's country,
rises that tableland, high delicate outline
of bony slopes wincing under the winter,
low trees, blue-leaved and olive, outcropping granite-
clean, lean, hungry country. The creek's leaf-silenced,
willow choked, the slope a tangle of medlar and crabapple
branching over and under, blotched with a green lichen;
and the old cottage lurches in for shelter.
O cold the black-frost night. The walls draw in to the warmth
and the old roof cracks its joints; the slung kettle
hisses a leak on the fire. Hardly to be believed that summer will turn up again some day in a wave of rambler-roses,
thrust it's hot face in here to tell another yarn-
a story old Dan can spin into a blanket against the winter.
Seventy years of stories he clutches round his bones.
Seventy years are hived in him like old honey.
Droving that year, Charleville to the Hunter,
nineteen-one it was, and the drought beginning;
sixty head left at the McIntyre, the mud round them
hardened like iron; and the yellow boy died
in the sulky ahead with the gear, but the horse went on,
stopped at Sandy Camp and waited in the evening.
It was the flies we seen first, swarming like bees.
Came to the Hunter, three hundred head of a thousand-
cruel to keep them alive - and the river was dust.
Or mustering up in the Bogongs in the autumn
when the blizzards came early. Brought them down; we
brought them down, what aren't there yet. Or driving for Cobb's on the run
up from Tamworth-Thunderbolt at the top of Hungry Hill,
and I give him a wink. I wouldn't wait long, Fred,
not if I was you. The troopers are just behind,
coming for that job at the Hillgrove. He went like a luny, him on his big black horse.
Oh, they slide and they vanish
as he shuffles the years like a pack of conjuror's cards.
True or not, it's all the same; and the frost on the roof
cracks like a whip, and the back-log break into ash.
Wake, old man. This is winter, and the yarns are over.
No-one is listening
South of my days' circle
I know it dark against the stars, the high lean country
full of old stories that still go walking in my sleep.
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