Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need anybody cry?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need all the world know, then?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

The poem "Comin Thro the Rye" by Robert Burns may be best-known today because of Holden Caulfield's misinterpretation of it in "The Catcher in the Rye." In the book, Caulfield relates his fantasy to his sister, Phoebe: he's the "catcher in the rye," rescuing children from falling from a cliff. Phoebe corrects him, pointing out that poem is not about a "catcher" in the rye, but about a girl who has met someone in the rye for a kiss (or more), got her underclothes wet (not for the first time), and is dragging her way back to a polite (i.e., Puritanical) society that despises girls who are "easy." Robert Burns, an honest man, was exhibiting empathy for girls who were castigated for doing what all the boys and men longed to do themselves. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, Jenny, rye, petticoats, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, song, wet, body, kiss, gossip, puritanism, prudery


Translations of Scottish Poems

Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar [1460-1525]
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



Ballad
by William Soutar
translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

O, surely you have seen my love
Down where the waters wind:
He walks like one who fears no man
And yet his eyes are kind!

O, surely you have seen my love
At the turning of the tide:
For then he gathers in his nets
Down by the waterside!

Yes, lassie we have seen your love
At the turning of the tide:
For he was with the fisher folk
Down by the waterside.

The fisher folk worked at their trade
No far from Walnut Grove:
They gathered in their dripping nets
And found your one true love!

Keywords/Tags: William Soutar, Scottish, Scot, Scotsman, ballad, water, waterside, tide, nets, nets, fisher, fishers, fisher folk, fishermen, love, sea, ocean, lost, lost love, loss



Lament for the Makaris (“Lament for the Makers, or Poets”)
by William Dunbar (c. 1460-1530)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity;
the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free;
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind waves the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in full flower;
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
all must conclude, so too, as we:
“the fear of Death dismays me!”

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee,
and the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty,
and the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!);
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next victim will be —poor unfortunate me!—
and how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we must all prepare to relinquish breath,
so that after we die, we may no more plead:
“the fear of Death dismays me!”



To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
why's such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
in a frenzied flash
when I would be loath to pursue you
with a murderous plowstaff!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union,
and justifies that bad opinion
which makes you startle,
when I'm your poor, earth-born companion
and fellow mortal!

I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
a small behest; it-
'll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I'll never miss it!

Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing's left to construct you a new one
of mosses green
since bleak December's winds, ensuing,
blow fast and keen!

You saw your fields laid bare and waste
with weary winter closing fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast,
you thought to dwell,
till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed
straight through your cell!

That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you're turned out, for all your trouble,
less house and hold,
to endure the winter's icy dribble
and hoarfrosts cold!

But mouse-friend, you are not alone
in proving foresight may be vain:
the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
go oft awry,
and leave us only grief and pain,
for promised joy!

Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch!, behind me I can see
grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
humans guess and fear!



To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.

You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.

My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!

I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?

Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!

O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!



A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.

And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.

Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.  

And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!



Auld Lange Syne
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days for which we pine?

For times we shared, my darling,
Days passed, once yours and mine,
We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet,
To those fond-remembered times!



Banks o' Doon
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair;
How can you chant, diminutive birds,
When I'm so weary, full of care!
You'll break my heart, small warblers,
Flittering through the flowering thorn:
Reminding me of long-lost joys,
Departed―never to return!

I've often wandered lovely Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And as the lark sang of its love,
Just as fondly, I sang of mine.
Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose,
So fragrant upon its thorny tree;
And my false lover stole my rose,
But, ah! , he left the thorn in me.

"The Banks o' Doon" is a Scots song written by Robert Burns in 1791. It is based on the story of Margaret (Peggy)Kennedy, a girl Burns knew and the area around the River Doon. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, air, song, Doon, banks, Scots, Scottish, Scotland, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, love, hill, hills, birds, rose, lyric

With our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
with blind zealotry they refuse to relent opposing our mergence
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

As we share these moments and begin our physical ascent
be aware that they will not capitulate in calling for our penance
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.

Remember this simple covenant in order to circumvent
the condemnation of our actions as unforgivable flagrance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

In these sheets we have long forgotten the ******'s lament
because the silent weeping is drowned out by our cadence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.

By our mutual pleasure we have earned their unrelenting resent
and we are endlessly castigated for our lack of temperance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

The cries of fanatics prove their opposition to be hellbent
they would prefer that we endure the torment of abstinence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

The eagle searches, circling, senses strum like spider silk.
Sorrow’s scent slides up on a sea breeze.
A solitary slave spits sullenly into the spray.
Silently, suddenly, the sentinel streaks down.

Beak breaks skin, breaches bone, crimson blots the ocean’s foam.
Defenceless, relentless, the bird blurs in a barrage of blood.
Banished, betrayed, the ravaged titan sways -  
between the rocks that form his cage.

His foe retreats; a closing caw as crooked claws cleave meat.
Head bowed in defeat, our hero strains as chains bind
hands and feet.
Enduring bonds cut deep and bleed him bittersweet.

Cast against the crags,
this castaway’s castigated cries call out
to no-one.
Chastised, he squints with hollow eyes
towards a lifetime of the bird’s reprise.
  
Furious. Fists flex,
thrashing against his fortress.
Face furrowed into a frown he flings forward
and for once finds his foot…
unfettered.  

Bindings broken, his bonds bite terra firma,  
as first a foot and then a hand finds favour.
Boundless, he bellows at the sky
as the flotsam of his freedom floats on by.

Reprieved. Aggrieved. He is restless in release.
An errant righteous line repeats.  
Relentless in its beat, it rings out like raw steel on teeth.
A ricochet that disturbs his sleep

“Is this victory, or defeat?”

Racked by reminiscence,
his reality and responsibility remain.
Warped roots rammed down
with rock-filled boots.
Resistance seems obtuse against such reoccuring fruit.

Reluctant, resigned, he rattles out a sigh -  
the last gasp of this transitory high.
Reaching for the rope and tack he re-binds the knots
that hold him back.  
With one last glance towards the past
he hoists his soul upon the mast.

Ceaselessly.
Senselessly.
The
sentinel
streaks
down.

The Fool

The grass bows in respect as he passes,
A fool so very unruly,
Spits vengeful passion,
Sets the bowing grass on fire,
Destroying nature with his smile,
Raucous,
Lashing feelings,
Eyelashes flutter in mortified shame,
Curling of their own accord,
In harmony of discord!
Disputed by speech in truth!

Love songs live ,
Castigated fool,
This lyricist,
Chastised for lack of care,
Beaten down,
Darkened magic mind,
Riling by inspiring,
Cauldron bubbles,
Images evaporate,

Eternal gossamer magic,
This fool's a clever fool!
He is such unruly fool,
Will never admit it,
Uncool fool,
Will stand in attendance,
To whims and things,
Main retorts in nonchalance!
Founded in chalice,
Full,
This fool,
Well,
He's no village idiot!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Spoilt wind driven veronica , castigated in blistering Summer swelter . Blue lace in harried July repose , a thundershowers grace upon a parched , grateful basin .
Streams collect on the valley floor , seeking their terminus ..
The clap of thunder addresses the meadow , seemingly forever into the darkened landscape ...
Tree frogs proclaim their appreciation , field crickets and cicadas sing familiar ballads ..
A shy Moon reoccupies its rightful purview , wood ducks return to their evening quarters .. Sleep well Mourning Dove , rest in peace Appalachian hillside ..

It was a wild alto-wielding sax man, screeching with halted notes and dissonant disregard for the folks and their fortune that awoke the birds, and the unyielding flock would mask the sky as two lovers kiss on a bench with flaking paint. The shores are prevailing, the yoking eggs would seep through cracks in the counter while children squeal and leave stains on the walls. Walking through forsaken habitats and dingy rats are bastardising the progression of time and in turn, they confuse a poet as he composes the castigated texts of his forlorn memories.
It was here that piano keys shook the core of the Earth with trembling recompense, and furthermore would eventually seek to unify the tribes of long suffering lands into the rambling herd that stampede through river basins, with alphabets falling from their back pockets. Ah black sky, with your inherent displeasure and disquiet, why are you crying on me tonight? The stars are as despairing as I.
I take your hand and lead you through green-light flickering corridors, as the rats are congregating and confusing us once more. Water drops overhead and we fall into chasms of disparity, holding onto piping that scolds our waning fingers, leaving us foreboding and dumb. Numb to the illicit sirens and the implications of urban living. And your body is sullen, as the Antelope are liberated, but with woe I could feel the icy chill that radiates from you and your once heated body.
Tire tracks, hurried, and the rats find no suspect, so with wringing hands I step into the sunlight and feel the blue sky ramifications and remember your name.
Gravel track buried, the flocks would return to nest in romantic trees, and I find myself alone as the sun rescinds its gaze, placing me in darkness once more.
And the alto-man continues to sing through tubular declaration, as the steadily raging war provides rhythm to the desolate streets and I feel disconnected.

I have a dream
A dream where we’re not vilified or crucified
For what we see in another eyes
Or whose eyes we see,
Where we’re not castigated
Nor berated
For being fated a little differently
Why can’t they see
That she and she
Are no worse than You and me
Or he and he

I have a dream
That the persecution ends
That society comes to its senses
That the relentless
Withering glares
And indignant stares
Erode to a bigoted few
There’s no reason why you and you
Can’t love each other
Why a man can’t love another

I have a dream
Where a mom’s lips curl
Into a smile while she talks about
Her daughter and that nice Jewish girl
With those pretty lips
Whisper nothings to each other
While fingertips dance across fingertips
When a father can beam with pride
Even though his son will never take a bride

I have a dream
Like a modern day Doctor King
Even though I’m not gay
I have a dream and the dream starts today
I have a dream that congregations won’t pray
Coming to their senses
Homosexuality isn’t a sin
What’s wrong with her with her
And him with him?
I have a dream that rainbow banners
And prideful marches won’t even matter
I have a dream that things will be
As they should be
That love is boundless
That love is enough
I have a dream

TRANSLATIONS OF SCOTTISH POETS

These are my modern English translations of poems by the Scottish poets William Dunbar, Robert Burns, William Soutar and Hugh MacDiarmid.

Ballad
by William Soutar
translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

O, surely you have seen my love
Down where the waters wind:
He walks like one who fears no man
And yet his eyes are kind!

O, surely you have seen my love
At the turning of the tide:
For then he gathers in his nets
Down by the waterside!

Yes, lassie we have seen your love
At the turning of the tide:
For he was with the fisher folk
Down by the waterside.

The fisher folk worked at their trade
No far from Walnut Grove:
They gathered in their dripping nets
And found your one true love!



The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season
I saw the uncanniest thing—
a watergaw with its wavering light
shining beyond the wild downpour of rain
and I thought of the last wild look that you gave
when you knew you were destined for the grave.

There was no light in the skylark's nest
that night—no—nor any in mine;
but now often I've thought of that foolish light
and of these irrational hearts of men
and I think that, perhaps, at last I ken
what your look meant then.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue men hold most dear―
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet nowhere one leaf nor petal of rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

If the tenth line seems confusing, it helps to know that rue symbolizes pity and also has medicinal uses; thus I believe the unrequiting lover is being accused of a lack of compassion and perhaps of withholding her healing attentions. The penultimate line can be taken as a rather naughty double entendre, but I will leave that interpretation up to the reader! 'Sweet Rose of Virtue' has been described as a 'lovely, elegant poem in the amour courtois tradition' or courtly love tradition. According to Tom Scott, author of 'Dunbar: A Critical Exposition of the Poems, ' this poem is 'Dunbar's most perfect lyric, and one of the supreme lyrics in Scots and English.' William Dunbar [c.1460-1530] has been called the Poet Laureate of the court of King James IV of Scotland.



Lament for the Makaris [Makers, or Poets]
by William Dunbar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life's terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world's vanity...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother's breast
the babe, full of benignity...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
'how the fear of Death dismays me! '

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry's flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! ...
how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from 'the fear of Death dismays me! '



Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need anybody cry?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need all the world know, then?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.



To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
why's such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
in a frenzied flash
when I would be loath to pursue you
with a murderous plowstaff!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union,
and justifies that bad opinion
which makes you startle,
when I'm your poor, earth-born companion
and fellow mortal!

I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
a small behest; it-
'll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I'll never miss it!

Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing's left to construct you a new one
of mosses green
since bleak December's winds, ensuing,
blow fast and keen!

You saw your fields laid bare and waste
with weary winter closing fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast,
you thought to dwell,
till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed
straight through your cell!

That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you're turned out, for all your trouble,
less house and hold,
to endure cold winter's icy dribble
and hoarfrosts cold!

But mouse-friend, you are not alone
in proving foresight may be vain:
the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
go oft awry,
and leave us only grief and pain,
for promised joy!

Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch! , behind me I can see
grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
humans guess and fear!



To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.

You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.

My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!

I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?

Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!

O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!



Auld Lang Syne
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days for which we pine?

For times we shared, my darling,
Days passed, once yours and mine,
We'll raise a cup of kindness yet,
To those fond-remembered times!

Have you ever wondered just exactly what you're singing? 'Auld lang syne' means something like 'times gone by' or 'times long since passed' and in the context of the song means something like 'times long since passed that we shared together and now remember fondly.' In my translation, which is not word-for-word, I try to communicate what I believe Burns was trying to communicate: raising a toast to fond recollections of times shared in the past.



Banks of Doon
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair;
How can you chant, diminutive birds,
When I'm so weary, full of care!

You'll break my heart, small warblers,
Flittering through the flowering thorn:
Reminding me of long-lost joys,
Departed—never to return!

I've often wandered lovely Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And as the lark sang of its love,
Just as fondly, I sang of mine.

Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose,
So fragrant upon its thorny tree;
And my false lover stole my rose,
But, ah! , he left the thorn in me.

The poem 'Comin Thro the Rye' by Robert Burns may be best-known today because of Holden Caulfield's misinterpretation of it in The Catcher in the Rye. In the book, Caulfield relates his fantasy to his sister, Phoebe: he's the 'catcher in the rye, ' rescuing children from falling from a cliff. Phoebe corrects him, pointing out that poem is not about a 'catcher' in the rye, but about a girl who has met someone in the rye for a kiss (or more) , got her underclothes wet (not for the first time) , and is dragging her way back to a polite (i.e., Puritanical)  society that despises girls who are 'easy.' Robert Burns, an honest man, was exhibiting empathy for girls who were castigated for doing what all the boys and men longed to do themselves.



Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body, // Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry; // Jenny's seldom dry;
She draigl't a' her petticoattie // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro' the rye. // Comin' through the rye.
Comin thro the rye, poor body, // Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye.
She draigl't a'her petticoatie, // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro the rye! // Comin' through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body // Should a body meet a body
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, // Should a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry? // Need anybody cry?
Comin thro the rye, poor body, // Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye.
She draigl't a'her petticoatie, // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro the rye! // Comin' through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body // Should a body meet a body
Comin thro the glen, // Comin' through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body, // Should a body kiss a body,
Need the warld ken? // Need all the world know, then?
Comin thro the rye, poor body, // Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye.
She draigl't a'her petticoatie, // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro the rye! // Comin' through the rye.



A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh my luve is like a red, red rose // Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June: // that's newly sprung in June
Oh my luve is like the melodie // and my love is like the melody
That's sweetly play'd in tune. // that's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, // And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
So deep in luve am I; // and so deep in love am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear, // that I will love you still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry. // till all the seas run dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, // Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; // and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear, // And I will love you still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run. // while the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve! // And fare you well, my only love!
And fare thee weel a while! // And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my luve, // And I will come again, my love,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile! // though it were ten thousand miles!


Keywords/Tags: Scot, Scotland, Scottish poem, modern English translation, translations, Robert Burns, William Dunbar, William Soutar, Hugh MacDiarmid

Balanced at this point of time,
Fractious as the case may be
Cautioned as to why we men
Most unctiously, cross women flee.

Brought to heel by subtle stare
Insinuation lingering there,
Caught out short by razored phrase
Abruptly severing…outrage,
Castigated without word
Rendering rebuff absurd.

Yet born to kiss and stroke the brow
But ultimately lost, somehow,
That give and take,(with **** smile)
Demolished slow in time’s worn guile,
Angelic then, in evening light
Extinguished now with tension tight.
Standoff in the cold of dawn
Sees all affection now withdrawn.

Balanced at this point in time
An utter need to kick the dog
Retreat to haven’s dark tool shed
To mutter hurt and swallow grog.

M.
Composed, (with tongue in cheek), for a poor weak ****** who quickly saw his Heaven on Earth become Hell.
23 February 2017
HAMILTON NZ

From the croaks of our throats
upturned winter wonderland
whistles incessant Good King Wenceslas,
whose crown is the most deserving here?
but knowest all roads led to ruination,
a frail rain has already
castigated any twinkle dust
and the only braves
are the iridescent petrol  streams glimmering  down
the  forsaken motorway  for January's finale.


.

The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality

The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class

A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence

But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies

Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity

Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled

Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it

Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of

The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity

Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things

So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic

I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding

I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses

But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice

Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more

A mother's shrine of a body
chastised for immortal capacities
no man himself could ever bare.

A breast of sustenance and stupefaction
castigated to a parcel of mundane flesh.

I am these atrocities for which your lack of appreciation
have wrongly deemed.

A victim of what the blind overlooked.

A hail to the moments, which were left in a haste;
unpraised, unspoken.........
A look into those moments, whose memories have become;
an immemorial token.........

Half sunk in those sands,
Half buried in those memories;
Lie those moments somewhere,
Which once had been our cherished trophies.........

With some lies, spoken for some truths,
and some truths, spoken for some lies;
Confined to be castigated for once,
But, finally lost in those million tries.........

This universe is a strange place,
A voice then slowly whispered.........
There is more sadness, to be coated,
As compared to the happiness, to be filtered.........

My feet may only move forward
I am a savage in the gardens of Babylon
Teaching love to all unbelievers
And castigated as a lunatic soul
I preach of dreams in living nightmare
Introduce color in a world that's only black and white
I eat your pain
As I paint rainbows on your soul
And if I save you
I save the world
And when you touch me
You touch my soul
Maybe its the only thing I've ever felt

You touch me
As I touch you

When I was but a child
I was hewn upon the cross
Paying penance in hammered nail
To keep from wandering, lost

For if my feet, they couldn’t stray,
Would commit no more to sin-
Except for that Original,
And the blot that lay within

Blinking, blood-blind eyes
Burned by brightest Son-
Would fail to meet the gaze
Under weight of crimes
I’ve only yet to’ve done

But soon became apparent
Being culled to feed the Wood-
Castigated;
Plumb, yet prostrate,
Would do me none for good

So,
Being not a martyr,
Or slave to other’s whims,
I set about to descend, and
Form and fashion, wood to bridge
Over the ocean of my sins

To free phalange from o’er spike
And leave a shining line-
To tread an unknown passage,
And seek what kismet mine-

Unburdened by the weight
Others sought upon to brand-
Reaching out, toward the Sun
Cupping it, softly
In my red right hand

Joe, our grade school bully,
Never bullied me.
Flying under the radar,
I got off scot-free.

Though I felt relieved,
I should have been incensed,
For seldom were his victims
Ever recompensed.

I wish I'd had the chutzpah
To walk up to him and intone,
"Hey, brainless buttface,
Leave that kid alone!"

What I would have done next,
I haven't the slightest clue.
I was a geeky kid
Who'd jump if you said "Boo!"

I should at least have tried
An approach more diplomatic
And NOT have selected
An expression so…emphatic.

Nonetheless, I never
Castigated Joe.
I was a helpless kid;
What the heck did I know?

We adults see bullying,
And we don't make a fuss.
Are we just delighted
That no one's bullying us?

We all know what happens
When people are afraid
To speak out against injustice:
Humanity is betrayed.

- by Bob B

The struggle is futility
Patient people play the part
Of impartiality
The wiser are restraint
Castigated for their intelligence
Castrated by their class
A classless struggle we abide
Poor children barely manage
To survive and seldom thrive
Not given access to the tools
Of excellence
But we wield the sword of obsolescence
Antiquated ideas put on the same level as
Modern machines and moral philosophies
Broad language discarded for
The disinfected nature of stupidity
Our language is censored
And free thought is crippled
Thus to succeed we must
Write to their level of understanding
So they can understand it
Which means we do not expect grandness
From the masses
That we underrate what they are capable of
The papacy’s power is palatable but detrimental
The Popes presence sends his parishioners
In to servitude as they submit to the
Sublimation of their identity
Unable to identify the truth from the lie
Unable to separate the flock from the I
I become the villain
For stating these things
So I drop names like Darwin and Thomas Paine
I wear the scarlet letter of poet and philosopher
Of Supplicant to science, Of literate romantic
I the son of Percy Bysshe Shelley
The son of Twain and Poe
The Son of Shakespeare and Baudelaire  
The son of logic and poetry
The lost ******* of peace, love, and understanding
I leave the eve of man’s ill behavior
To see the seething corps of corpses
Rise in ignorance strive for pestilence
With hopeful hate in their eye
To perpetuate the self-fulfilling prophecies
Of all types of apocalypses
But in the end it will be I that am despised
Thus if I must be hated then at least
Favor me with this tiny justice
Like Galileo, Giordano Bruno, and Copernicus
I will wear chains well earned
There is so much knowledge to be had
So learn, live, love and then learn some more

I only take a swing
At the ball that's worth hitting
I'm not going to go for each one, who am I kidding?
It's like a phychlogical bidding
It may not work out in the end
It may not suffice at all
Hence why I stay reticent and stall
But I push myself a little more now
I get castigated for taking a shot
It gets lonely at the top
So what if I flop
I have a million dollar shine
No more staring at the vines
Just pure courage
It may not happen
But I don't care
I could end up winning for life
By taking that chance
I want my words to make her dance
And to see verification in my stance

Black

Is it a crime to be black? Should i be castigated for my skin color?
Am I less of a human? Or is the fear that I am more? I’ll leave that for later.

They say black lives matter but does it really? They say their neighbours are black, that their barber down the road is black. They try to relate to everything black except what it actually means to be black.

The white eye don’t see what the black eye sees. The white life don’t don’t feel what the black life feels.
How can you play down a fear that you don’t feel? A fear that you instilled.

Tomorrow isn’t promised but that doesn’t give you the right to take away my tomorrow today.
I tell my kids they are the leaders of tomorrow but that is if that they can get through today.

The victims could have me or you. Sadly could still be. Think of the ones that have been brushed aside, with no camera or evidence to prove a thing. Think of the pain caused over the years. The worst part is? This is not a one-off, painfully It is just a matter of time before this happens again.

So do not tell me how to feel. I don’t tell you *******. But it does seem like you do pick and choose who to ****. Would you still be you if you could pick? That is for you to answer. The blood that you’ve spilled, it’s time for you to answer.
If we are picking and choosing I would pick repeatedly to be

Black

"Be a good girl"
"Don't play around with boys, and don't be played around by them"
"Learn how to cook and clean"
"Study every minute of your life so you can get a well paying job"

Listen here,
I am not happy!
I have broken down more than you can imagine.
I have been suffering with depression for 4 years!
4 years!
Imagine the constant pain and agony I have been enduring from not being able to share my burdens with you

I have been used and abused so many times.
I have hated myself as a sister, a daughter, a friend, and most importantly a woman.
I have attempted suicide and the only person who cared enough was my 2 year old sister.

You remind me everyday how I cannot confide in you,
How I cannot need you for emotional support as my parents
How I cannot cry on your shoulders
Because I will be brutally castigated for being as broken as I am.

in my darkest times, although I didn't turn to boys, alcohol or drugs,
I found comfort in depression,
I found comfort in drowning
Because I could not find comfort in you.

If you had taken the time to talk to me about anything either than my grades.
If you had taken the time to thoroughly look at me.
Look at me as your baby girl.
Your baby girl that you held for the first time and vowed to protect and aid 'till your dying day.

I choose to take a break from being in the house for a few days
Because I need a break from people who do not take note of the unhappiness that overwhelms me.

For once, I just want to break down in your arms without being in fear that I will be the enemy in the house.

It has been hard to feel like I'm enough for even myself because
I have never, and will never feel like I am enough for you guys.
And Everyday I'm reminded of how I have failed you as a daughter.

“Learn from the mistakes of others.  You can’t live long enough to make them all yourself.”

-  Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962), longest serving FLOTUS



Start with one comely young man of great promise:
He rescues lamb from jaws of bear.
Rescues sheep from clutches of lion.  
Slays giant Philistine with stone and sling.  
Forms deep friendship with prince, son of king.  
Becomes king himself.
Marries daughter of prior king – a princess.

Add a heaping teaspoonful of lust of eye - perhaps both eyes.
Stir in ****** – more than a pinch (is ****** ever less than a pinch?)

Let simmer; boiling over may be unpreventable, even if *** is uncovered and fire is low.
Clean up overflow.
Rinse cleanup cloth, but keep handy; more cleanup may be needed later.
Replenish fire as needed.
Keep plenty of wood; this fire will burn awhile.

Let plot thicken.
No need for additive; it will thicken of own accord.
Add a dash of sleepless nights.



Do not taste; mixture is bitter.
If proof needed, insert fingertip (not more) into stew.
Run cool water over fingertip.
Avoid four-letter words.
Rinse mouth.
Resolve to believe recipe in future.

*

Protagonist is castigated by prophet.
Marries widow of innocent man killed in battle.
With multiple wives, has multiple children; never a good idea.

       *

Son of one wife grows up to, like his father (like father, like son?), succumb to temptation – for his half sister.
Despite her plea, he forces himself on her.
She grieves.

*

Remove lid; handle potholders with care.
Mix in half a cup of tears.
Probably no need for salt; tears may be salty enough.
Stir ever so gently.

*

Her brother learns of her grief, is determined to wreak vengeance upon perpetrator, his half brother.
Which he does at a subsequent banquet.
Blood flows, some into ***.

                               *

No need for yeast.  
This mixture has enough ingredients to rise on its own.
Also, no need for spice.

      

A comely man in his own right, avenger decides to usurp throne.
Once (and future) king flees.
In subsequent combat, usurper flees by mule.
His mane catches in low-hanging branches of an oak (every yang has its yin), and he is killed.
More blood is shed.

*

Blood is salty, and has a flavor all its own.
More will trickle into ***; it cannot be helped.

*

Add cup of gall.
Little to no stirring needed; gall will disperse on its own, and tends to dominate whatever it is commingled with.

*

The king has epiphany, writes psalms – 150 of them.
Despite all above, the Almighty calls king ‘a man after His own heart.’
‘Where sin doth abound, grace doth much more abound.’ – Rom. 5:20.

*

Cooking is done.
Extinguish the fire.
Let *** sit.

*

Contemplate follies of man.
‘What fools these mortals be’ -  Shakespeare, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
“We have met the enemy, and he is us.” – Walt Kelly, ‘Pogo’ comic strip.

*

Final stew is less bitter, but also less sweet, than it might have been.
Once put in the *** of life, ingredients cannot be removed.
They can only be tempered by more ingredients.

Choose wisely.

President Trump's first day
In office wouldn't allay your fears
If you've been worried about what we'll
Be seeing for the next four years.

Press Secretary Spicer,
Who's called upon to do Trump's bidding,
Had one major concern:
Crowd size! I'm not kidding!

Spicer castigated the media,
Saying that they had underreported
The size of Inauguration Day crowds.
The figures, he said, were greatly distorted.

Spicer insisted that Donald Trump's
Inauguration crowds had been
The largest that had ever witnessed
Such an event.^ Once again

Trump's insecurities
And hurt ego take front stage.
The media merely report the facts
And he flies into a rage.

Facts are facts: President Obama's
Numbers were greater. But NO big deal.
Instead of putting out a tweet,
Trump had Spicer deliver his spiel.

The numbers are not that important.
What's important is whether Trump can
Set aside his petty gripes.
Is that beyond the scope of the man?

- by Bob B (1-22-17)

^Spicer had said the following: "This was the largest audience ever to witness an inauguration, period, both in person and around the globe." Just awkwardly worded, or intentionally vague?

The gynecological man is no friend to glaring inequity! The gynecological man shows worldly-wide women  how
to divide 1 chunk of **** into 2 chunks of ****.

Whilst Gandhi homosexed his homosexy **** across India's frontier
white captors shook under the Raj's prohibition of Leffe Blond beer
& proctologic probes, ****** lubes & other buggery-facilitating gear
that made it thrillin' to hang backside-up like a royal navy brigadier
whose furloughs were porked by a toothless, salt-gatherin' mutineer
reliant on the sedition of a Hindu ½-caste, 5th column pamphleteer
with the power to render a beggar from a Bihar Province financiere
in the wink of a pink eye dies a marginal, market-manglin' profiteer
castigated, beleaguered & burked afore burial in Earth's lithosphere
that tricks atop, beneath, under & underneath Indira's sloppy veneer

Today

They screamed
They mocked
They demeaned
They berated
They castigated
They excoriated
They hollered
They yelled
They scolded
They criticized
They condemned me to Hell

And when I shot them
they died

Until today I have never re-posted someone else's work on my modest site. This is brilliant:

W. K. Kortas
JUNE 22, 2021

ON WATCHING “DOCTOR ZHIVAGO” WITH THE SOUND OFF

On Watching “Doctor Zhivago” With The Sound Off
There is a certain shock, not from the silence itself
But of its revelations, the laying bare
Of the utter superfluence of language
In all which unfolds before us, the testament mute
But imbued with all the power of an orchestra
In full-throated fortissimo
Delivered through the panorama of the vast steppes,
The bounty of their Junes,
The desolation of their Januarys
The visage of the doomed Strelnikov,
The darting glances of the chameleonesque Komarovsky,
His eyes scuttling to and fro like dark cockroaches,
And most of all by the unquiet, not-of-this world gaze
Of Yuri Andreyevich, a stare which tells tales
Of how fleeting this world’s happiness will be,
How final and inescapable its sadness,
And as he stumbles and falls in his mad, final pursuit
Of a grail which is unheeding, unseeing,
Always just a step out of reach,
The dialogue is not a necessity,
For we have a trove of our own words and experience
To attest to the veracity of the scene in question.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE–as I would be justly castigated by my good friend Lawrence Hall if I failed to do so, I made a point of adding the good Yuri’s patronymic .)

calls for resignation
disgrace, dishonor, desecration
of the office held
the law venerated
you talk of people
like chattel
to be corralled, choded
castigated
but hold yourself
to no such judgement
you're a problem
of your own making

there's something i can't reconcile
a fear hastily dismissed
i'm afraid of being the person i am
of a mistake that can't be fixed

perpetually sorry
awfully hardly
barely starting
to make up for all that i've done wrong

what is my burden
the punishment deserved and
the consequences i'm certain
will never amount to enough to feel okay to move on

while i'm sure i'm being dire
the awareness sheds no grief
castigated by my own thoughts
i couldn't walk away even if i was free

the things i didnt do
laid their claim on me
and the ones i did anyway
despite understanding
dig into me constantly
consciously
and when i feign peace
unconsciously

The house always wins
Anti gambling hymn
Never bigger than the game
Whatever be your fame

Pandemic declaring war
Vaccines  to heal the scar
United on the defensive
But polarized on the offensive

A couple of shots
To stem the rot
Not so simple after all
Blame game next on call

Section of the population
Questioning the effects of the vaccination
Living in a free world
They have the right to be heard

Growing in strength in numbers
Resistance groups still outnumbered
Bottom line is Pharma company figures
Castigated by society willing to endure

Conspiracy theories by the dozen
From their point has logic and reason
My body my life their slogan
Fall in line or get accused of treason

Organizations and Governments
Pharma companies getting their endorsements
Bugles sounded Civil war emerging
Like minded groups on the battle front aligning

Follow the rules
Harmony will endure
Its about others
Back up there are the death figures

Have no right
In this universal fight
Holding on tight
Last option is might

Better safe than sorry
Cannot cause others to worry
Rally to finding an ally
Not at the cost of my body

Herd immunity
One more theory
Who will ratify its authenticity
At a dead end in a blind alley

How much longer
Now the talk of booster
Corporations to collect the *****
Not at the cost of my body

Who is right
Whats going on
When did we get divided
When all of us were affected

Origin of the virus
Which caused this crisis
Pious and righteous
Was caused to sell the antivirus

Take the required medicines
Let's find peace within
Mankind's future never looked so thin
No better day than today let's begin

Two sides of a coin
No right or wrong
No winner or loser here
Who s name will the trophy bear

Polarized society
Total ambiguity
Political ideology
Pandemic ploy

If might is right
So be it
David vs Goliath
Says it need not be it

It wasn't always this way
But sometimes when you reminisce you see the stains of a wasted life and potential like filaments dancing in a stuffy room

The children know as you pass them and their faces contort in disgust
And the dog barks like a ***** being culled from its cave

The dejected and the disorderly;
The castigated and condemned -
You wear your clothes
Like a rucksack and meander through the road as cars hiss past and eventually you stumble somewhere safe for the moment
What is the meaning of this suffering?
Surely it wasn't always this bad, but it has been
& My persistence is merely the persistence of a fool chasing delusion when reality is much more merciful in its blunt assertion

You don't belong
And that's ok too because
nothing matters

Whilst Gandhi homosexed his homosexy **** across India's frontier
white captors shook under the Raj's prohibition of Leffe Blond beer
& proctologic probes, ****** lubes & other buggery-facilitating gear
that made it thrillin' to hang backside-up like a royal navy brigadier
whose furloughs were porked by a toothless, salt-gatherin' mutineer
reliant on the sedition of a Hindu ½-caste, 5th column pamphleteer
with the power to render a beggar from a Bihar Province financiere
in the wink of a pink eye dies a marginal, market-manglin' profiteer
castigated, beleaguered & burked afore burial in Earth's lithosphere
that tricks atop, beneath, under & underneath Indira's sloppy veneer
At a glance the dance pants of Vivian Vance were enhanced by ants
so as to put in a stance of advanced trance manse plants that prance
by ****** chance rants that lance the nuts of *****, slopes & slants
My *** belongs, along with my dead heart, to Anchorage, Nebraska
which is readily contused with the bloodily-bruised Omaha, Alaska
that's praised like Jesus God by tenants, overnight renters & leasers
& Texican-Haitian-barrio rats that spooks derogatorily call greasers
in Aussie hinterlands where flocks of sheep breed with gay fleecers
who flame out at 60 like Liberty Avenue's sick sock-cucking teasers
while they're sockdologizing a crooked clientele of ½-spent geezers
iced plenty for vicious crammin' into Maytag-coffin-model freezers
with a fiercely-frozen frigidity to flummox farting, chronic sneezers
tweezed out hollow sinus-cavity-wise by the rustiest of ol' tweezers
to the degree of dealin' coronaries to ***** Canary Island wheezers
unfit to dredge ditches, sew kites, buy radial tires, dig palm trees or
****** Miss America till she acquiesces without having to seize her