Corbie or knight?

I was laying so low I was below myself, and couldn’t reach the keyboard! Now I am just beside myself, a figment of my imagination, a will o’ the wisp, ephemera, a shimmering. I reconstitute myself in the morning light, and condense in the evening whispers, a shadow without repose. Tomorrow is garbage pickup, so I have to scoop the dog poop from the yard. That's a day job; too hard to do as a shadow.

I think I will start the last phase tomorrow; I am just waiting to hear from the doc. We delayed a couple of weeks because my blood counts were so low, and except for an overnighter to Jade Cove I haven’t done much of anything. I did dishes, laundry, watched the sad and depleted Patriots lose to the evil Indianapolis team led by the warlock Manning. Johnny finished up his play Dracula, and was overly mortified when he almost dropped one victim.

Any and all of you that ever wanted to kick my butt at anything, now is the time. I am ripe for the picking. Elbow fights Donald? Bball Randy? Golf everyone? Snowballs for the old neighborhood (man I was a killer in a snowball fight)? But I ain’t coming to you, and you have to bring your own snow.

Since I don’t have much to say, I will include a poem I am reminded of by Mac. Every time I golf with Mac, we end up using Irish or English or Scottish accents, we don’t what they are. There we were at La Cala in Spain, Irishing all over the place with no clue what we were saying. Stuff like ‘Och, you really laid the heather to that one, Johnny boy’, or ‘It’s half tree and we’re needin’ the blather.’ One of my all-time favorite war poems, by the legendary and prolific Anonymous, who must have been a vampire as he wrote in almost every century:

The Twa Corbies, Scottish version, 17th century

As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane:
The tane unto the tither did say,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'

'—In behint yon auld fail dyke
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.

'His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady 's ta'en anither mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.

'Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:
Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.

'Mony a one for him maks mane,
But nane sall ken whar he is gane:
O'er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.'