Foxy: <You seem to want an argument of some sort.>

I do not.
Apologies for the intrusion.

Dear Squeers,

Oh no. Now I've offended you.
I'm so sorry.

Your input has been of great value
to this thread. It wasn't an "intrusion,"
at all. And please continue.

Please, please, please...

Dear Poirot,

Here's one of my fave comedians referring to Burn's poetry:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCQP5zuou0Q&feature=related

Distorted Burns:

There was a man,
His name was Lang
and he owned a neon sign
but he was old; so very old
That they called it Old Lang's Sign.

I used to love reading My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose but none of his poetry about women and love appeal as much for me now as I've learned more and more about his relationship with Jean and other women.

I do though continue to appreciate much of his writing about politics, poverty and working class struggle. A long time ago I read a profound piece - something to do with workers in an iron foundry I think, or a very hot factory or something. I tried to recall and find it but couldn't. If that rings any bells someone might point me in the right direction.

Dear Pynchme,

Great clip.

Once I discovered the Dumfries connection with Burns, I became a little more familiar with his history in that regard.
That quote about my gggguncle was by Jessy Lewars to Burns' biographer, Robert Chambers. She nursed Burns during his final illness and he, being a hopeless romantic, fell in love with her. Apparently, he used to joke with her about which of her swains she should (or shouldn't) marry.
People like Robert Burns, for all their failings, can't help but stand out wherever they exist in space and time. They possess a rare quality that is hard to define, but it's something that ordinary souls can't help but hold in some sort of dubious esteem. In 1819, twenty three years after his death, Burns was still listed in one local directory among the town's residents. His address given as, The Mausoleum, St Michael's Churchyard...

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair,
And with them take the poet's prayer -
That fate may in her fairest page,
With every kindliest, best presage
Of future bliss, enrol thy name;
With native worth, and spotless fame,
And wakeful caution still aware
Of ill - but chief, man's felon snare.
All blameless joys on earth we find,
And all the treasures of the mind -
These be thy guardian and reward,
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard.

Squeers

>> Severin,
apologies for offending you<<

When is an apology disingenuous? When it is followed by an unfounded personal comment:

>>clearly you dislike having your complacency shaken<<

I freely admit to my faults, but "complacency" is not one of them. Oh, to have the luxury of complacency - I wish.

>> Severin's never heard of it, but there's such a 'thing' as Culturalism...<<

You base this claim on....?

You then state I have >>lashed out<<. I see a double standard, Squeers. And, believe me, when I do "lash out" you will know.

Much with the personal insults. Trolling, my dear?

You are then apparently attacked by some lurking complacency yourself, with a piece of sophistry that reads like a first draft of an English Lit 101 dissertation on Post Modern poetry.

As I stated above: "You have contributed much thought of far more value than the Houellebecqs of OLO." What went wrong? I can only surmise that the sharing of poetry brings out your snide side.

I echo Foxy's sentiments; you do rather appear to want to argue. However, I too must have been mistaken, you wish to engage in lively and witty banter.

Please, please, please regale us.

Will be back in a couple of days - be good boys and girls.

Squeers:"Foxy: <You seem to want an argument of some sort.>

I do not.
Apologies for the intrusion."

And another one bites the dust. How long before there's noone for foxy and Severin to talk to but themselves?