1. Tom Watson
Mar 13 2003, 6:53 pm show options



It has been said that newbies are not given a warm reception in this
newsgroup. I take issue with that and present this for your
edification.


The Cremation of Joe Newbie


There are strange things done in the rec.norm sun
By the men who boil and mold;
The rec.norm trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Newsgroup Fights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Letharge
I cremated Joe Newbie.


Now Joe Newbie was from alt.howdie, where the nice folk blooms and
blows.
Why he left his home on the alt. to roam ‘round the Wreck, God only
knows.
He was always cold, but the land of Norm 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 Bennett trail.
Talk of your cold! through the keyboard'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 Joe Newbie.


And that very night, as we lay packed tight on our keyboards beneath
the snow,
And the trolls 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 flame 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
alt.howdie;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Joe Newbie.


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 flame those last
remains.'


Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the wreck 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 trollers,
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 trolls were spent and the grub was getting
low;
The plonks 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 Letharge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the
'Delta Gray.'
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 flame-a-tor-eum.'


Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some threads 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 Joe
Newbie.


Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the trolls they 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 Joe, 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 my tree, down in alt.howdie, it’s the first time I’ve
been warm.'


There are strange things done in the rec.norm sun


By the men who boil and mold;
The rec.norm trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Newsgroup Fights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Letharge
I cremated Joe Newbie.


Ayup. The Wreck can be a warm place.


(apologies to Robert Service, RIP)


Happy Spring.


Regards, Tom.


Tom Watson - WoodDorker

tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (real email)

http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/

nice!

A poem I remember from public school,oh so many years ago. I thank you for a
new twist on something I remember fondly.

Jim

Tom Watson wrote:

t has been said that newbies are not given a warm reception in this
newsgroup.**I*take*issue*with*that*and*present*thi s*for*your
edification.


The Cremation of Joe Newbie


Almost as good as "I wonder what Bin Laden is doing tonight".


--
It's turtles, all the way down

Stellar, as usual, Tom!

Vic

Tom

I remmeber the original from grammar school.

"I cremated Sam Mcgee"

Thanks for the memory and very creative

Ken

"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
1. Tom Watson
Mar 13 2003, 6:53 pm show options



It has been said that newbies are not given a warm reception in this
newsgroup. I take issue with that and present this for your
edification.


The Cremation of Joe Newbie


There are strange things done in the rec.norm sun
By the men who boil and mold;
The rec.norm trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Newsgroup Fights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Letharge
I cremated Joe Newbie.


Now Joe Newbie was from alt.howdie, where the nice folk blooms and
blows.
Why he left his home on the alt. to roam 'round the Wreck, God only
knows.
He was always cold, but the land of Norm 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 Bennett trail.
Talk of your cold! through the keyboard'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 Joe Newbie.


And that very night, as we lay packed tight on our keyboards beneath
the snow,
And the trolls 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 flame 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
alt.howdie;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Joe Newbie.


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 flame those last
remains.'


Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the wreck 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 trollers,
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 trolls were spent and the grub was getting
low;
The plonks 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 Letharge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the
'Delta Gray.'
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 flame-a-tor-eum.'


Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some threads 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 Joe
Newbie.


Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the trolls they 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 Joe, 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 my tree, down in alt.howdie, it's the first time I've
been warm.'


There are strange things done in the rec.norm sun


By the men who boil and mold;
The rec.norm trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Newsgroup Fights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Letharge
I cremated Joe Newbie.


Ayup. The Wreck can be a warm place.


(apologies to Robert Service, RIP)


Happy Spring.


Regards, Tom.


Tom Watson - WoodDorker

tjwatson1ATcomcastDOTnet (real email)

http://home.comcast.net/~tjwatson1/

Tom, you have way, way, way too much time on your hands to come up with
something this excellent. Get your sorry butt back out into the shop.

Robert W. is spinning in his grave. So is Dangerous Dan McGrew (and,
of course, the lady known as Lou).

A.J.