wake up call of buddy don: a lil robert service

i been readin a wunderful book name of Collected Poems of Robert Service that wuz give me by eric over at straight white guy.

tiz the kinda book ye caint rush thru. fack is, i sumtimes git stopped a'readin a pome over n over n over agin. them pomes is that good.

not only do ye find yerself unable to speed thru such a book, but the closer ye git to the end – n i only gut 80 pages out of 728 lef! – the more ye tend to slow down sos ye dont half to end it.

most folks woodnt thank a book of pomes could be so engagin, but them pomes of robert service is differnt. they rime n tell stories. sum of em sets up thar own meldies in yer hed. twood be easy to cunvert a minny of em to musick.

i wonta share one of them pomes with ye, witch taint the bestn, but it hit me lack a left hook i wuznt eggspecktin. it duz whut the best literchur duz, witch it makes ye questchun whut ye wuz a'doon with yer life, makes ye wunder ifn taint time to recunsidder thangs n try to git back on the rite corse.

whenever i wuz a'wurkin reglar in thee-ater produckshuns over in man hattan, i herd a feller eggsplain purty well whut good literchur duz:

good literchur calms the distrubed n disturbs the calm.

turns out one of the smallest lil pomes in all of them colleckted pomes of robert service is a'doon that to me. here tiz:

My Masterpiece

It's slim and trim and bound in blue;
Its leaves are crisp and edged with gold;
Its words are simple, stalwart too;
Its thoughts are tender, wise and bold.
Its pages scintillate with wit;
Its pathos clutches at my throat:
Oh, how I love each line of it!
That Little Book I Never Wrote.

In dreams I see it praised and prized
By all, from plowman unto peer;
It's pencil-marked and memorized
It's loaned (and not returned, I fear);
It's worn and torn and travel-tossed,
And even dusky natives quote
That classic that the world has lost,
The Little Book I Never Wrote.

Poor ghost! For homes you've failed to cheer,
For grieving hearts uncomforted,
Don't haunt me now…. Alas! I fear
The fire of Inspiration's dead.
A humdrum way I go to-night,
From all I hoped and dreamed remote:
Too late… a better man must write
The Little Book I Never Wrote.

i hope to git back to the real reason i dun started this here blog, witch i wonted to practiss establishin a bleevabull hillbilly dialeck sos i could tell a huge tale usin stories i dun lived thru or seen otherns live thru.

thang is, all my brayin bout pall ticks n such is jes lack ice skulpchur: twont last long. but ifn or when i finish ritin life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly (furst draft of the furst 101 chapturs is here; furst draft of chapturs 102 to 140 here), then i wood have sumthin that wood always be wurthy of readin since twont be deependent on the news of the day. it mite not be red by too minny folks, mite not even git published. i caint cuntrol nun of that.

but i kin cuntrol this, at lease till death innerupts: twont be the book i never rote!