Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fartistic Wind"*

A ****** seeps into Thee's loft and lispers...

"F-f-f-fartistic s-s-s-soul, I would like to be a fr-fr-fr-freak and ooze in your **** cre-cre-cre-cretinivity"...

Thee fartistic soul then cuts cheese, and says...

"If you are to reach true degeneration, you must first crap a work of ****"...

The ****** then begins to swirl round and round the **** bowl...

A can of trash then pervades the room and spills these words...

"Without a lisper there is no ******, without a ****** a lisper ceases to be"...

The ****** then collides with the can of trash...

A masterpiece of p-p-p-puke...


Original ('Artistic Wind') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

People say they want to live in a small town,
but when I look out my window
all I see is
Zero.

I look out my left window,
Zero.

I glance out my right window,
Zero.

The daily routines,
an Act Without Words.

We go through the motions in a small town,
get up, smile at people we hate,
hope for something more,
repeat.

In a small town
you bite your tongue,
just to keep the peace.
Did you bleed today?

There’s no point in asking
how someone is
because we already know.

Each new piece of gossip
strings us along,
Beckons
teases.


The small town will hold
anything over your head.
It will dangle a divorce
suspend a separation
and hang up a hook up.

In a small town,
the space between people’s teeth
revealed by their fake smiles
serve as cre-
Nells

People rave about the
fields of grass, and the trees.
In each patch of green
lies un lucky Clov-
ers
The fresh air is fetid.
The stink of the town’s
***** laundry is
enough to make
any argument for the town Null.
Zero.
It’s almost genetic,
the little Nagg-
lings in the school yard,
slicing, dividing, cutting
people like cake.

Settling for small town life,
is a fate worse than Hamm-
lets think about it.

No excitement.
No privacy.
No trust.
Zero.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam
'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way
that he'd sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn't see,
It wasn't much fun, but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead
were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap", says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you
won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
then he says with a sort of moan,
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold
till I'm chilled clean through to the bone
Yet 'taint being dead-it's my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you'll cremate my last remains.

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid,
because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you
to cremate these last remains".

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code,
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb
in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows--
Oh God, how I loathed the thing!

And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,
and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was called the Alice May,
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here", said I, with a sudden cry, "is my
cre-ma-tor-eum"!

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared
such a blaze you seldom see,
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like
to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow,
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked".
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said, "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear
you'll let in the cold and storm--
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it's the first time I've been warm".

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

be        au      tifu           lu      ng              ra              teful              talent­e
dd       iff      icult          lo       vi              ng              messy           suppo
 rti       ve     spitef         ul       w             arm            jealous          caring
  cr      az     ychar          m      in              gs               martd           epress
 ing   br    av      et         **     ug            htle             ss     ge          ne
   ro  us     inc     on       sid     er             ate              ad    ap          ta
   ble m     oo       dy      co      m             pass            io      na         te
    stub      bo        rn      af       fe             ctio             na      te         cr
    itica      lp          ra      ct       ic            al  ar            gu     m         en
    tati       ve           w     itt       y            un  pr           ed     ict        ablec
    our      ag            eo    us      to     ­      uc   hy          friendl          yrese
     ntf      ul             he    lp      fu           li      m          patien           tflirty
      sa       rc            as     tic      in          te      re          sting             boastf
      ul       cu           rio    us      in          fle     xi           bl    er          el
      ia        bl            e      cl     ­   in         gy     cre         at     ive        ta
      ct         les         s       **      ne         st     emo        tio     na       ld
      isc         ipl       ine    d        fo         rcefulsex         yse    ns       iti
      ve          su       lle      n        m        od         es        tf        ru      st
      ra            tin   ge         n  thus         ia           st        ic         hy    po
      cr             iticalp          lucky          cl            um     sy        am   usingp
      os             essiv            ecalm         in            g        sn         ide   friendl
       y              pom             pous         ad            ve      nt          ur    ousch      
      ar     ­          ism              atic           br             ok     en          and perfect

My friend said you looked like a Paul
because your were tall and bald
I said you look more like an ash now
my jokes are low brow

When I am crashing down the slop
and given up hope
humour helps me cope

Sorry for your loss Rob
what do you mean?
life is not bleak
arsenal won last week

It happened one day at the year’s white end,
Two neighbors called on an old-time friend
And they found his shop so meager and mean,
Made gay with a thousand boughs of green,
And Conrad was sitting with face a-shine
When he suddenly stopped as he stitched a twine
And said, “Old friends, at dawn today,
When the **** was crowing the night away,
The Lord appeared in a dream to me
And said, ‘I am coming your guest to be’.
So I’ve been busy with feet astir,
Strewing my shop with branches of fir,
The table is spread and the kettle is shined
And over the rafters the holly is twined, t
And now I will wait for my Lord to appear
And listen closely so I will hear animated bullet
His step as He nears my humble place,
And I open the door and look in His face. . .”
So his friends went home and left Conrad alone,
For this was the happiest day he had known,
For, long since, his family had passed away
And Conrad has spent a sad Christmas Day.
But he knew with the Lord as his Christmas guest
This Christmas would be the dearest and best,
And he listened with only joy in his heart.
And with every sound he would rise with a start
And look for the Lord to be standing there
In answer to his earnest prayer
So he ran to the window after hearing a sound,
But all that he saw on the snow-covered ground
Was a shabby beggar whose shoes were torn
And all of his clothes were ragged and worn.
So Conrad was touched and went to the door
And he said, “Your feet must be frozen and sore,
And I have some shoes in my shop for you
And a coat that will keep you warmer, too.”
So with grateful heart the man went away,
But as Conrad noticed the time of day
He wondered what made the dear Lord so late
And how much longer he’d have to wait,
When he heard a knock and ran to the door,
But it was only a stranger once more,
A bent, old crone with a shawl of black,
A bundle of ******* piled on her back.
She asked for only a place to rest,
But that was reserved for Conrad’s Great Guest.
But her voice seemed to plead,
“Don’t send me away Let me rest awhile on Christ-
mas day.”
So Conrad brewed her a steaming cup
And told her to sit at the table and sip.
But after she left he was filled with dismay
For he saw that the hours were passing away.
And the Lord had not come as He said He would,
And Conrad felt sure he had misunderstood.
When out of the stillness he heard a cry,
“Please help me and tell me where am I.”
So again he opened his friendly door
And stood disappointed as twice before,
It was only a child who had wandered away
And was lost from her family on Christmas Day. .
Again Conrad’s heart was heavy and sad,
But he knew he should make this little child glad,
So he called her in and wiped her tears
And quieted her childish fears. animated bullet
Then he led her back to her home once more
But as he entered his own darkened door,
He knew that the Lord was not coming today
For the hours of Christmas had passed away.
So he went to his room and knelt down to pray
And he said, “Dear Lord, why did you delay,
What kept You from coming to call on me,
For I wanted so much Your face to see. . .”
When soft in the silence a voice he heard,
“Lift up your head for I kept My word–
Three times My shadow crossed your floor–
Three times I came to your lonely door–
For I was the beggar with bruised, cold feet,
I was the woman you gave to eat,
And I was the child on the homeless street.”/////


by Helen Steiner Rice
~ Scripture ~
“Then the King will say to those on his right, 'Come,
you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheri-
tance, the kingdom prepared for you since the cre-
ation of the world.
For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat,
I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I
was a stranger and you invited me in,
I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and
you looked after me, I was in prison and you came
to visit me.’
“Then the righteous will answer him, 'Lord, when did
we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give
you something to drink?
When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or
needing clothes and clothe you?
When did we see you sick or in prison and go to
visit you?’
“The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you
did for one of the least of these brothers of mine,
you did for me.’
By Helen Stiner Rice)

የ ገና እንግዳ


የሆነ ቀን ነው ነገሩ የተከሰተው፣
ዓመቱ ተገባዶ ሲሰናበት፣
ደርቦ ካባ ፀዓዳ ወተት!
ሊጎበኙት መጡ ሁለት ጎረቤቶች፣
የኮናርድ አብሮአደጎች፣
ወና ሆኖ ተዳክሞ አገኙት ሱቁን፣
ገርጥቶ ተቆራምዶ እሱን!
ተወት አድርጎ የሚሰፋውን፣
ፈልጎ እንዲሰሙ የሚለውን፣
“ባንጀሮቼ አድምጡኝ፣
ዛሬ በማለዳ
አውራ ዶሮ ሌሊቱን
በጩከት ሲሸኝ፣
ጌታ በሕልሜ ተገልፆ
ይህን አለኝ
‘እመጣለሁ ቤትህ፣ ልጎበኝህ!’
ይኸው አለሁ
ያለፋታ ቤቴ ውስጥ እንዲሁ ስመላለስ፣
የፅድ ዝንጣፊ ስቆርጥ ስነሰንስ፣
ጠረጴዛውን ስዘረጋ - ስጎትት ሳስጠጋ፣
የሻይ ጀበናውን ስፍቅ - እስኪያብረቀርቅ!
በመለጠቅ አድርጊያለሁ ደማቅ፣
ባለቀይ ኳስ ገመድ፣
በሸሪራዎቹ ቁልቁል ተንጠላጥሎ፣
በየአቅጣጫው እንዲወርድ!
እናም እስኪገለጥልኝ ጌታ፣
እየተጠባበቅኩ ነው የእግሩን ኮሽታ፣
ሲገለጽ በሬን ከፍቼ፣
ፊቱን ለማየት ጓጉቼ፣
ትንሽ ተጠግቼ!”
ባልንጀሮቹ የሚለውን ሰምተውት፣
ሄዱ ቤታቸው ብቻውን ትተውት!
እሱ እንደው፣
በጣም የተደሰተበት ወቅት ነው፡፡
ከዚያ ጊዜ ጀምሮ ቤተሰቦቹ
ተራ በተራ ሞተዋል፣
ኮናርድም ብዙ ብቸኛ ቀዝቃዛ
ገናዎች አሳልፏል!
ሆኖም ነበረው ትልቅ እምነት፣
በእንግድነት ስለሚገኝለት፣
ጌታ ያቺን ቀን፣ ቤቱን እንደሚያደምቅለት!
ነበር ተደስቶ፣
የሚያደምጥ ጆሮውን አንቅቶ!
ድምፅ ሰምቶ ቀጥ አለ በቅፅበት፣
መጥቶ እንደው ጌታ ድንገት፣
ለብርቱ ፀሎቱ ምላሽ ለመስጠት!
ወደ መስኮቱ ሮጦ ሲጠጋ
በዚያ በረዶ የሸፈነው፣
አስፋልት ላይ ያየው፣
ብትቶ የለበሰ ለማኝን ነው -
ምስኪን፣ አፍንጫው የተገነጠለ፣
ጫማ፣ የተጫማ!
“ደንዝዞ ቆስሎ ይሆናል እግርህ፣
ጫማ አለ ሱቄ በልክህ፣
ግባ ልስጥህ-
ኮትም የሚያሞቅህ!”
ለማኙ የሚፈልገውን አግኝቶ፣
ወጥቶ ሄደ ረክቶ!
ኮናርድ ግን
በመገረም ጌታ ለምን እንደቆየ፣
ሰዓቱን አየ፡፡
ከዚያም ቆመ ግራ በመጋባት፣
መቆየት እንዳለበት፣
ምን ያህል ተጨማሪ ሰዓት?
ግን ድንገት፣
ኳኳ የሚል ድምጽ ሰምቶ፣
በሩን ከፈተ ወደዚያ አምርቶ፡፡
ግን እንደገና አየ ሌላ እንግዳ፣
የፈለገች ለመዝለቅ ከጓዳ፣
አረጋዊት የጎበጠች፣
ቲውቢት የደረበች፣
ትንሽ ጭራሮ ከጀርባዋ የሸከፈች፣
እናም እረፍት የማድረጊያ ቦታ ጠየቀች፡፡
ለታላቁ እንግዳ በቀር፣
ሌላ ስፍራ አልነበር!
ጥያቄዋ የመማፀን ድምፀት፣
ነበር የተጫነበት፣
ኮናርድ ‘ቤት ለእንግዳ’ ብሏት፣
ሻይ አፍልቶላት
ከጠረጴዛው እንድታርፍ ጋብዟት፣
እነሆ ጠጪ አላት፡፡
ግን እሷን እንደሸኘ አዘነ፣
ሰዓቱ እያለፈ ስለሆነ!
ደሞም ጌታን ሲጠብቀው ስለቀረ፣
መልክቱን በደንብ ማድመጡን ተጠራጠረ!
ሀዘን ገብቶት ሲያቅማማ፣
ሌላ ድምፅ ሰማ!
“እባክህ እርዳኝ
የት ነው ያለሁት?”
ዳግም የደግነት በሩን ሲከፍት፣
ለሶስተኛ ጊዜ አለው ክፍት!
መንገድ የጠፋት ልጅ ነበረች፣
ሳታስበው በገና ቀን
ከቤተሰቧ ተለይታ የሄደች!
የኮናርድ ልብን ሀዘን ገባው፣
ቢሆንም ልጅቷን ማፅናናት እንዳለበት ተሰማው!
“ግቢ ልጄ” ብሏት እንባዋን አበሰላት፣
እንዳትረበሽ አረጋጋት፣
ቤቷም ድረስ ሸኛት!
ተመልሶ ሲገባ፣
ወደ ክፍሉ ሞገስ አልባ
“በቃ አለቀ ደቀቀ
ቀኑም ተጠናቀቀ!” ብሎ ተሳቀቀ፡፡
ያም ሆኖ
ስሜቱ እንደቀዘቀዘ፣
መፀለይ ያዘ!
“ጌታ ለምን ዘገየህ፣
ቤቴ እንዳትመጣ ምን ያዘህ?”
እያለ ቅሬታ ሲያሰማ
እንግዳ ድምፅ ሰማ
‘ጭንቅላትህን ወደ ላይ አንሳ፣
እኔ እንደው ቃሌን አረሳ!
በደጅህ በምድራኳ፣
በጥላዬ ተጠግቼ በርህን ላንኳኳ፣
ሶስቴ ጎብኝቼሀለሁ ዛሬእንኳ!
እኔ ለማኙ ነበርኩ፣
የቀረብኩህ ብትቶ እንደደረብኩ!
ደሞም ከድካሟ የታደግካት፣ ባልቴት፣
በመጠለያ አልባው ውርጫማው መንገድ፣
ለሆንካትም ልጅ ዘመድ’
(በሔለን ስቲነር ራይስ)

cre·scen·do
/krəˈSHenˌdō/

noun

1. the loudest point reached in a gradually increasing sound.
"the music rose into a crescendo"

the music swells around us, in this room where our eyes first met. the room i first saw you, i first saw myself.
my breath exits my mouth in short breaths, mesmerised by your soul and the way it greets mine

2. the highest point reached in a progressive increase of intensity.
"the hysteria reached a crescendo around the parade"

the tears block my vision, my voice hoarse with anger. i hear your voice heighten, the temperature in the room rising. your voice is piercing. spitting venom. my breath exits my chest in quick, gasping breaths, fighting to stay together.
your soul stands before me rotting and splintering, hateful words directed at mine. your arm raises in an unfamiliar motion. ready to strike but your soul strikes before your hand can, venom seeping into the wound on my cheek



c.h.h.b end.

To cause something new to exist using imagination and talent
Created in the womb, I can to create.
Here in my world I'm hanging pictures,
I'm settling in.
Much like windy roller coasters:
   Theres ups and downs.
The ups give us a view of joy.
The downs prepare us for futures.
I want to make my future a dream-
A dream of truth and bliss
when was the last time you really felt?
Reality taunts us saying,
"theres only so much to create, for whats beyond
living the depths of the ocean?"
Test your mind to stretch and bend
        to go beyond creating
               and into completeness.

Don't "take" action...it doesn't belong to you.
Don't "take" action..."make" it instead.
Radioactive Reaction...I, Radio Re-Active
We make, Radioaction.
Iconoclashing against a faction Hell bent on Heaven sentiment.
Fictional filament tethered to the Town Hall Square Circular non-secular content.
Stitching Supra-stitious suspicion.
Weaving away, in the name of good faith.
Imperial pillows to suffocate  un-resting heads
blankets of banners-it's story time to go to bed.
Yet here i sit...reaction-ing in script.
Creating activity...through creativity.
Cre-activity.
Recreational reaction.
Revolutionary open-caption inking passion with a digital pen.
"Make me"...such a passive statement with such a threatening proposal...a posing promise...a convenient conviction to tend.
A submissive request to influence choice over chance.
Change over circumstance...situational aggressive targets
subjectively objectifying a marketable stance.
"Make" action...don't just take it
Only then will it be yours to keep.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
      By the men who moil for gold;
  The Arctic trails have their secret tales
      That would make your blood run cold;
  The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
      But the queerest they ever did see
  Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
      I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that 'he'd sooner live in hell'.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and 'Cap,' says he, 'I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request.'

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
'It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'taint being dead - it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains.'

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: 'You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains.'

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the 'Alice May.'
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then 'Here,' said I, with a sudden cry, 'is my cre-ma-tor-eum.'

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared - such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: 'I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: 'Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm.'

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Did you not take my breath away

The one gift
you can not give
and still stay

Tethered born
from belly
connect
and belly torn

Did I not thrive for life
suckling sure
gulping love
sipling strife

Were we not
all apples
before what eyes

Before the fall
of yours
and mines

Sorry apples
nuts and rut
would ***** come
poured down
the thriving throat

What is regurgitating
other longing
re urging
swallowing
submerging

To diaphram
disruptive
falsely claiming
urgent distractions

What is to liver
becomes malaise
all jibberish

Shoot me
some adrenal-ish
before i get in
or get out
of that monster
fish

Fry me
in your pan cre-ole us
to the suet of your filet
digest me
your way

Something in this burpling
will no longer
pass thee usurping

Hick upped
or gassing passing
selling poses
of the sweeter
smell of roses

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.


Robert William Service

Thee Artiste Carvó's "Fumility"*

I am a tróubled Tróll, yes I be
draped in bonds of turgid fumility
endowed with a mind's inanity!
Indeed, I fantasize the glóry of Thee
floating like a cork in lunacy
at the edges of the dredges of futility!
But then, as I hallucinate visions of greatness in I and me,
the Vóices come, singing fóllies of my destiny
buzzing in my head like a bumblebee!
The mystic maggóts envelop the I, the fartistic see
birdies tweet to coo coos in the jujube tree  
while the lónely Lóg swims in I and Thee,
counting buttons, deviant in insanity!


Some souls are just simply shallower than others. There is no shame in recognizing I's ówn drabness, and appreciating the bóredóm Thee'self has unleashed upon the world. When Thee writes crap about the greatness of I, Thee is displaying I's disappointment for I's lack of gifts...
Would you yourself not feel pity for the finest fartist alive?


Original ('Humility') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Thee Artiste Carvó's "I Went Berserk Today"*

I went berserk today...
They locked the cell again...
And I started to pray...
That they didn't forget my meds...
And pray...
Because my cell was filled with horrors...
And a fine **** came...
It passed through the hole in my soul...
And the fine **** was my art...
That I had made...

It smelled...
Oh oh...
Oh so good...
A truly fine ****...
My meds now no longer needed...

The visions reappear...
Tomahawks...
Fly in flock...
And are dropped by the smell of ****...
A fine, fine **** from Thee Fartest

Dust storms...
Stay in a rut...
Between the frail cheeks of my divine ****...
And are expelled with my next fartistic emission...

I...
I stay stay on top!
Floating upon the winds of ****...


Original ('I Went Home Today...') by:      Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

He swims upon the lake and swell.
Inside the waters where she fell
on that moonlit winter morn.
All alone and now all gone.

Within that wet, that lake of ice,
he spots her shade. Not once but twice.
She's smiling still, all hope and bells
just like she looked before she fell.

Oh Cre'Atus, please cut her loose,
his words fall dead like neck and noose.
And so he swims, his body cold,
in hope his heart gives in and folds.

This longing hits, and loneliness
becomes his friend, as bitterness
invades his soul, has come to linger
in this man once known as Wind Singer.

Of wind was he, and in his rhymes
there would be joy and better times.
His lips would purse,  his whistles call
and all the birds from sky would fall

into his home, a barren field.
A homely place, with little yield,
but tenderness, this man would give
to all the beasts and birds that live.

Inside the woods, he passed with light
around his feet, and in the bright
green heart of leaves and trees he chimed
with each pure whistle. Each soft rhyme.

He met her there, a girl of peace
so great her smile should never cease
and from that moment he knew joy.
An angels face. Heavens envoy.

He took her in, and showed the world
how God had surely carved this girl
from summer winds, and autumn song.
She stayed with him, where she belonged.

They walked the fields, the barren soil,
but with her laugh and through their toil,
the lands became a place of worth.
A place renowned throughout the Earth.

The love he knew. The heart they shared.
And every time he showed he cared
her love would swell. So would her life.
And so, he took her as his wife.

Time passed by quickly...

The nights grew long. The trees grew old.
The starlight those days seemed so cold.
The fields were bare. The harvest cleaned.
Their home was peaceful and serene.

But shadows crept within the trees,
so soft, so harsh, like a disease
it swept upon the woods and beasts
until all life had surely ceased.

There man and wife, unknowing still,
knew not their lands had fallen ill
with taint and shadow,  dark refined.
They sat in bliss while light declined

around their hearth. Around their love,
until the shade, wrapped like a glove
their home and with it in it's might
it weaved a spell, their hearts couldn't fight.

In fear she fled, and in her stead,
her husband stayed behind and bled
as he took arms and fought this fiend
with strength in men, so rarely seen.

At last he overcame his foe.
Threw down this dark, had overthrown,
but not victory or respite
had he,  for where now was his wife?

He fled into the trees and brush,
past deadened trees which once were lush.
Past beastly corpse, and silenced bird.
He called her name until he heard

a song, a sound. The heart of her.
He ran toward the sound in fear,
that he should somehow lose his light.
Should suffer loss because of blight.

And there he saw his beauty fair.
Against the sky he saw her there,
upon a cliff top, doomed to fall.
She answered not. Heeded no call.

In her despair her senses fled.
In her fear, panic in her head,
She saw her husband dead on the floor.
No more love. No more! No more!

And so as all the tales have told,
this lady fair. This beauty old,
jumped to the sky and met her fate.
The husband came, but was too late.

He screamed his pain to the skies.
'What was it for, Cre'Atus, why?!'
But silence met his pained demand,
and so he jumped, took life in hand,

but fate was not with him that day.
This life was not for him to slay
and he lived, he still breathed, still fought
against the death his loss had bought

for what is life without her near.
Why exist without her here?
Why go on within his fields,
alone, no song to grow the yield?

And so he swims within the swell.
Inside the waters where she fell.
His love is lost, straight to his core.
The Wind Singer will sing no more.

.
..
...

With Crappó hated by the throng
young York decided to be strong
and told the Log 'you don't  belong'
and silenced him neigh three months long.

The corpse of Crappó lay unsung
amidst the muck of maggot mung.
Adoring words that Crappó flung
brings forth Thee Artiste from the dung.

This ballad now recalls to mind
Log's crummy comments, dull or spined,
a dilettante now much maligned,
the holey scourge of all mankind…

The only question left to face
'ts whether Thee will share Log's place
within the ashes of disgrace
adorning demons' fireplace.

*******

THEE BALLAD of LOGBRAIN CRAPPó
      
Prelude
The lord above returns to earth
descending as an afterbirth
and prattles of his paltry worth
in sluggish lines devoid of mirth.

In tedium the angels sighed
and cast his sorry soul aside,
commanding world and he collide
by grace… and gravity complied.

The earth is now a poorer place
defiled with icons of his face
adorning doggerel disgrace.
With character? No, not a trace.


LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S TALE

His day of birth! A cat meowed?
With nary but a fig endowed
his mama gasped, then laughed aloud
and cast her sin upon a cloud.

Rejected at his mama's gate
he felt his ego desiccate,
wax paranoid and fill  with hate,
his self-esteem disintegrate.

At last the cloud came floating by
and caught an ancient angel's eye.
With pity for the puny guy
she boosted him beyond the sky.

Denied the milk at mama's ****
his nourishment was incomplete
except for jam on Golden street
where angels scrape their moldy feet.

Beholding mortals down below
he ventured into vertigo
and felt his feeble ego grow
beneath a chocolate cheerio.

With halo (brown although it be)
he rose above the holey sea.
"The ruler of the angels, me!"
became his favorite fantasy.

While looking down his nose at them
(upon his head a diadem)
he framed his face in foggy phlegm
and claimed he came from Bethlehem.

He then could hear the angels trill
"Just stop, because you're mortal still,
and even then you're lacking skill
except to serve the swine their swill" .

While scribbling lines in lethargy,
he foamed and drooled "supremacy,
preeminence" delusively…
unbearable monotony .

And with a visage woebegone
he scribbled trash till well past dawn
not worth the paper written on
and thus he made the angels yawn.

At last the angels felt dismay
and chose to act without delay…
with nothing but a negligee
he landed in an alleyway .

Since then he's never ceased to whine
"Please worship I, I am divine,
the lord of those who worship swine".
He's pricky as a porcupine.

Well, back on earth since Saturday,
he daubs his face in disarray
with soul patch stripe and black beret
and prances like a popinjay.

His mental age stays stuck at three.
And never reaching puberty
he scrawls some **** poetry
which seems to be his destiny.



LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S EPITAPH

Log Crappó… well, he died in shame
cascading crap, his sole acclaim
accented ó, his only fame
with no one but himself to blame.

He finally made his last descent
inside the pit of punishment.
Now Satan's feeling discontent,
replaced as Prince of hell's torment.

On looking back, one must admit
he suffered from a lack of wit,
could never quite  get over it
so wrote his Masterpiece-of-****.


        CrE  aka  Trollminator

A dóggy drópped sóme Crappó
                   steaming ón the street,
a cóffee cólóred fungus
                   piled up óh só neat -
and there a juicy maggót
                   fóund it óh só sweet,
só simply sóft and tender,
                   just like a córpse's meat

Thee maggót, nót só clever
                   -  simple and untaught -
was dreaming óf attentión,
                   slimelight's what it sóught.
An empty-minded cómrade
                   certainly'd help a lót -
anóther wórm-like nóthing
                   just the thing! it thóught.
  
While ******* in the Lóg's brain
                   - óh quite a simple chóre -
it replicated pustules,
                   petty, ghastly, sóre.
And when the Lógy maggót
                   ****** in nóthing móre
it burst apart in wónder,
                   clóned Thee Artiste Whóre

Well, Petty Little Lógbrain,
                   Whóre, Thee Artiste crank
Are mixed up in the mire,
                   in mindless **** they sank.
Thee cópies creepy Crappó,
                   from pages where he stank.
and claims tó be Thee Artiste,
                   - Thee smell is simply rank

The móral óf this fable,
                   clear fór all tó see:
If fated with a Lóg brain
                   bear yóur destiny
and never let yóur EGÓ
                 rampage ón a spree!
Ór  else like Whóre and Crappó
                   yóu'll sóón turn intó Thee.



                CrE aka Trollminator

Thee Artiste Carvó's "Embrace Thee Blight!"*

Thee Artiste's **** once more is freed!
Oh! Wandering fumes do flatulence heed!
Bubble forth! Through waters so impure!

Thee's ***** **** is near!
Bowwow to Thee…
for Thee's smell's a doggy's dream...

Embrace Thee blight!
Gasses new, gasses old…
pass through Thee's dual manifold…

Thee's thee fartiste of forever…
Cro-Magnon man who's mentally spent,
******* on creativity's flames

Oh perfect ****…
exudes from Thee who seeps…
for he is Thee who sets the winds of fartistry free.

Only Thee (the no one) knows!
How true fartistry blows...
like Thee who is the evoker...
of the fartistic flow...

Oh Thee who is Logbrain Crappó is master of the fartiste's blows!


Original ('Embrace The Light') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

The Artiste Carvó's "The Greatest Fartist Alive"*
                  (Another Crummy Acrostic)

T is for ****, I am attended by flies...
H is for Haughtiness, I am flowing through the fartist's stanks...
E is for Enema, my fine **** pollutes the very hole...

G is for Gigantic, I am the biggest ego in history...
R is for Refluxing, my fine putriditry puts artistry in ******...
E is for Emetic, I truly am expelling...
A is for *******, I posses the gift of ****...
T is for ******, I leave no stomach un-turned...
E is for Excrutiating, my words torture the very soul...
S is for ******, My logic is slimy....
T is for Tag-along, I truly am shadowed by all and everyone...

F is for Fatuous and Flatulence, the essence of I…
A is for Archfiend, demon am I...
R is for Revulsion, My art is abomination - My art yet *****....
T is for Tedious, I have been placed here to bore people to death...
I is for Idiot, I am truly unblessed...
S is for Selfish, I place **** before I's self...
T is for Talenticide, I have killed all things of art...

A is for Asinine, I possess all lacks...
L is for Lifeless, I truly worm the artistic heart...
I is for Idolize, I worship I...
V is for Venomous, I am all that is spite and impure...
E is for Emasculated, I am indubitably impotent...

This sums up why I and I alone am the greatest fartist alive,
And I will of course do one of my great farts in time.

Original ('The Greatest Artiste Alive') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Thee Artiste Carvó's "Maggot O' Pus"*

I open my fly
I beat

I close my eyes
And seep

Watch me now
To see the art

Thee art of a master-bater

I read your eyes
they show horror

They reflect Thee MasterPiece-of-****

Thee art of a master-bater
Thee art of Loghain Carvó

I open my lips and ****
For all these works are Thee Maggot O' Pus


Original ('Magnum Opus') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Thee Artiste Carvó's "The Odor of Logbrain Crappó"*

Lógbrain yóur **** is oh so ASSinine...
It is of course malign...

Yóu are the cón artist of the moronic chimERA...

Yóu are of course a resigned, all inferiór, cón artist that becraps the mind, body and soul, as well as the very nether realms...

óh óh óh.... Lógbrain yóu are lonely while taking care of yóur flock in the fields... óh óh óh...

Yóu ascend the flock...
ascending and mounting the sheep, one by one
Yóu are on top...
on top from behind... yes, óh Yes, Óh YEs, ÓH YES, YES, YESSS...
Óh soiinf osiujh8adabyghueyhiu rnolkm

Touching the heart...
Touching the soul...
Touching the woolly pudenda…

and thus issueth the "I"s, the "óh"s and the ewes from the egómaniacal shepherd ,
Crappó, the manna of the banana I-gód <> the delusion of illusions and confusions of a sick putrid sub-mind...

****, that only yóu and the sheep yóu have so deeply touched can feel it in the end... óh óh óh

Óh Lógbrain Crappó, óh please óh please óh please crap some more fine **** for yóur lessers, if any there be...
with yet another one of yóur masterPIECES in the fields of ewe.

Yes, Crappó, BÓTTÓM feeder, yóu and yóur fine **** are a pain in the *** to all...
This fine piece goes out to the greatest cón artist alive.


Original ('An Ode To Loghain Carvó') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Thee Artiste Carvó's "LogbraIn Crappó"*
           (Another Crummy Acrostic)

LudIcróus
ómnI-Ignórant
grótesqueness
ball-less
róckbó­ttóm
addled
IdIótIc
nóbódy

CólItIc
repulsIve
asshóle
pIsspót
pue­rIle
óh-ffensIve


Original ('Loghain Carvó') by:      Thee Artist aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Between the crooks and nannies
In a booth with seven *******
There's no way they could stand me                                                                              se cre t swi mm ing
pools
Heathen if they're understanding                                                                   a bed wetting fool
Could that mean they understand me                                                                            I'm sure I'd Right that too
I hear a lot about our standings                                                     If I had nothing Left to say
but what I think will be standing                                                          
is the dust particles of landings
and the Sun light filling crackings                                                                                            away  
I'm too good for the attackings                                                    
I understand my lackings                                                                        and     then we float
Got a tenacious grasp for love love love love love  Stacking bodies to the flood





Limb to a tree
     Flower to a bee
          You to a meeeeee
and eye to eye
     I have left myself dry on and Island watching the 4th of July
                 Why oh why Did I ever lead that guy into a terrible lie

Mask to a Foe
         Mask of a Friend
                 Do you ask to wear it well or can I see you again

How To Know How to Crów*

I only know…
how to crów…
and for that matter how snot to blów...
to flush Thee's I lids, filled with sóót…
and trample others underfoot…
and swizzle Lóg's inadequate mediocrity in beer…
and discontent so insincere…
to bake a subpar leaking **** insult…
of the egómania egó cult…
as self-serving accolade…
and act the quade, though never laid…
and dig a swirling dreck cascade…
as Carvó's paintings quickly die and fade…
within Thee's stinking I parade…
for three art and two art and one art for zero art...
We (I and Thee) can only obsess to tear HP apart.


Original ('How To Know Not To Know') by:  Thee Artiste aka Logbrain Crappó
Reworked by:    CrE aka Trollminator

Suppose it's all sullen and weak,
Controlled by the means of our mind,
Selecting my greatest ambition,
To corodially define,

Sol,
Go,
Cre,

Love always


mens gens

Meaning mind tribe in Latin