The typographical error is a slippery thing and sly,
You can hunt till you are dizzy, but it somehow will get by.
Till the forms are off the presses it is strange how still it keeps;
It shrinks down into a corner and it never stirs or peeps,
That typographical error, too small for human eyes,
Till the ink is on the paper, when it grows to mountain size.
The boss he stares with horror, then he grabs his hair and groans;
The copyreader drops his head upon his hands and moans –
The remainder of the issue may be clean as clean can be,
But that typographical error is the only thing you see.
On fumbles, muddles, and apologies …
The apology is to poet Hugh Conner, whose poem ended in a muddle called Rambling last week. His verses follow again the way it should have been printed last week.
Anonymous is heading in the right direction with his, or her, ‘rhyme.’ The fumble last week was mountain size; I haven’t enough hair to grab, the moaning and groaning’s done and gone, and in comparison to what’s happening in the world it’s no big deal, although Jim Fiebig is still right when he says: “Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone.” Paraphrased it could finish “having a typo fall from a line.”
The New Law of the Yukon
This is the new law of the Yukon and Cheechako’s have made it plain.
Send me your foolish and feeble, send me your weak and insane.
Weak are the pampered and serviced, insane for the need to reform
The pioneer people who built me, force them to comply with the norm.
Swift as a panther in triumph the newcomers pounce on their prey!
Helpless the pioneers cower to their misguided and bullying way.
No smoking, no mushing, no fishing, no driving, no fun and no say
About what is acceptable action or lifestyle or freedom today.
No respect for those who have suffered to build them this home in the North,
My doors have been opened to people proclaiming my laws have no worth!
These newcomers claim we are evil, mindless and cruel and mean
For protecting our claim as a people not ruled by the Southern regime.
No eating of meat, no forestry, no seeking of Klondike Gold,
The thought police are coming for us to force us to do as we’re told!
My heart is broken to pieces as the newcomers squabble and fight,
They pave over my golden hist’ry with social correctness and spite.
My Sourdoughs’ struggles have ended as they are now harried and gray,
Too tired to battle these morons who feel that they know the right way.
It is said that we won’t go to meetings, but we are busy attending our works,
‘Cause what is the point of opinion when your home is invaded by jerks?
Hugh Conner (with apologies to Robert Service.)
Thank you Hugh!
I think R.W.S. would say, “I wish I’d said that!”
I sure do!
There is a little immaturity stuck away in the crannies of even the most judicious of us, and we should treasure it. (Robert Ebert, Chicago Sun movie reviewer.)
A tip of the hat to sourdoughs! As I put this to bed a magnificent black fox strolled past our front door, stopped, paused, and posed, when I opened the door for a better look, as if she, or he, was saying, all’s well in your Yukon world. All’s well that ends well!