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Previous post: True But Forbidden 4: On Travesty by Lance Morrow
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we’ll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we’ll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
by Shel Silverstein
The steel mill sky is alive.
The fire breaks white and zigzag
shot on a gun-metal gloaming.
Man is a long time coming.
Man will yet win.
Brother may yet line up with brother:
This old anvil laughs at many broken hammers.
There are men who can’t be bought.
The fireborn are at home in fire.
The stars make no noise,
You can’t hinder the wind from blowing.
Time is a great teacher.
Who can live without hope?
In the darkness with a great bundle of grief
the people march.
In the night, and overhead a shovel of stars for keeps, the people
march:
“Where to? what next?”
— Carl Sandberg
Comments on this entry are closed.
Too bad. Another example of how the Left destroys everything it touches. Obviously never intended to be a career type job, but rather the first rung of the ladder acquainting individuals with the work-a-day world. Given how tenuous the grasp of acceptable, normative behavior is with so many of today’s yutes, I much prefer them not having any contact with my food.
Flippy will never work out. For one thing, he can’t spit on your burger.
My first “real job” was in 1970 at the age of 15 at the only McDonalds in town and the hourly wage was a dollar something and I was glad as hell to have it. 15 years and 32 jobs later I was running my own business and never worked for “wages” again. As Richard above said, it was a rung.
And I agree, I wouldn’t let most of them mow my yard. If they want to touch my food they’ll have to come into my kitchen and to get into the kitchen they’ll have to dodge a continuous hail of shrapnel.
Let em fuk theirselves.