the eton rifles -- the jam

We came out of it naturally the worst:
Beaten and bloody, and I was sick down my shirt.
We were no match for their untamed wit,
Though some of the lads said they'd be back next week.

Hello-Hurrah - it's the price to pay to the Eton Rifles.
Hello-Hurrah - I'd prefer the plague to the Eton Rifles.

I like Paul Weller. Not only is he the Modfather, he's also quite damned sarcastical. This sarcastic homage to the armed squadron of the public school and upper class kennel Eton says it all. "We were no match for their untamed wit..." Music like that simply isn't made anymore.

It's gotten cold by now. Damned cold actually, enough to cause shivers when biking home. Slept unsurely at the bus, almost as usual, and was home around six o'clock. Luckily, commuting is not driving me mad; if it was, I would have been lost a long time ago.

Observation: I am no poet. Nor do I dwell on severe self-criticism when it comes to my writing, and by that you know that I am telling the truth. The confinement, the general artiness of poems is something that I can find very appealing, but likewise confining and restricting. I can't save myself with my usual vomiting of words; every word needs to say something. Forethought and planning is needed. Humbug!

Likewise, I am signed on to the class' new poetry blog. I cannot guarantee that I will ever submit something, but in the end it will at least stimulate that fairly unused part of my brain. Who knows, maybe I'll actually do something.

I'm rambling about nothing. Sure sign of it being time to call it quits.


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