~ I certainly did not stay up until six thirty cramming for an exam that I did not almost miss due to my face being implanted in my keyboard.
~ There is no earthly way I would ever contemplate knocking another student out, taking their keys, saying "Take this Chem course and call someone who cares" and hightailing it for home for Christmas.
~ I would never dream of thinking of taking a plastic bow and arrow into a public tech college finance department and hurling sticky arrows at people's heads.
~ I have not been horrendously obnoxious to the student I am tutoring to try to get faster work out of them. :) Not me...
~ I did not get myself hooked on a new show right before I knew a time was coming that I wouldn't be able to keep up with it faithfully.
~ I am, of course, NOT in withdrawals over it either...
~ I am not contemplating hitting the person in the face that finds it necessary to not only invade my library table, but also to hum, loudly.
~~~
The king of a small African nation had an elegant golden throne in his large grass hut. When an old friend came to visit from another nation, he was worried that the man would discover he was a king and treat him differently. He searched frantically for a place to hide the throne, but to no avail. Finally, he decided to have it wedged up in the ceiling of his hut. When his friend arrived, he went to the hut's opening to greet him. Just then the ceiling started to give way, and the golden throne fell on the king, killing him. The moral of the story is this: People who live in grass houses should not stow thrones.
Robin Hood and Maid Marian star in the Highwayman by Loreena McKennit. Original poem by Alfred Noyes.
The Highwayman (abridged version) The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas. The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding, Riding, riding, The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilts a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
And over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred. He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
"One kiss my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; If they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by the moonlight, Watch for me be the moonlight, I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement. His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet waves in the moonlight!) He tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come at the dawning. He did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching, Marching, marching, King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead. But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; Hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say- 'Look for me by the moonlight; Watch for me by the moonlight; I'll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!'
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like
years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
'Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!' Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; 'Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,' in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
'Tlot-tlot,' in the frosty silence! 'Tlot-tlot,' in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.
He turned; He spurred to the west; he did not know she stood Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
And back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
'Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding, Riding, Riding, A highwayman comes riding, up to the old in-door.
