The remodel continues though we did take some time off Friday to do a little shooting. I have a bit to do to get ready for the 3 Gun match in December. Ok, a lot.
It struck me the other day while I was working. No, not the nail gun. That was earlier. The Republicans are suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. They've been hostages by the liberal establishment for so long they've fallen in love with them. Maybe explains why I'm no longer a big R. Unnatural sex gives me hives.
Hey, it's Sunday. Time for some football, BBQ, good company and maybe a prayer or two. America and a lot of her sons and daughters could sure use them.
I was the staunchest of our fleet Till the sea rose beneath my feet Unheralded, in hatred past all measure. Into his pits he stamped my crew, Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw, Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure. Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still, Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer -- Lifting forlorn to spy Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near! Wrenched as the lips of thirst, Wried, dried, and split and burst, Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining; And, jarred at every roll The gear that was my soul Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining. For life that crammed me full, Gangs of the prying gull That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches. For roar that dumbed the gale, My hawse-pipes' guttering wail, Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches. Blind in the hot blue ring Through all my points I swing -- Swing and return to shift the sun anew. Blind in my well-known sky I hear the stars go by, Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true. White on my wasted path Wave after wave in wrath Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me. Flung forward, heaved aside, Witless and dazed I bide The mercy of the comber that shall end me. North where the bergs careen, The spray of seas unseen Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling. South where the corals breed, The footless, floating weed Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling. I that was clean to run My race against the sun -- Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster; Whipped forth by night to meet My sister's careless feet, And with a kiss betray her to my master. Man made me, and my will Is to my maker still -- To him and his, our peoples at their pier: Lifting in hope to spy Trailed smoke along the sky, Falling afraid lest any keel come near!