Saturday, October 30, 2010

Wulf

I will say that I'm a bit benumbed at present. When I was a pubescent pup with my purity affecting my teary eyes I went prostrate on the floor of an abyss; my situation was dire. For mine own boughs were resembling an Asian horticulturist's pride and joy, and try as I might the apex of the pit was beyond my capture. I bellowed ire, chaff, and gall! And at the climax of my yawping a youth gazed over the lip of my pit. I expected the rube to stone me, maybe throw one of his blood-lusting hunting hounds inside the ring of my confines, he acting the Caesar to what would be my Christian end. Yet, as he bore into me with his judging regard, his large heart rose on the end of his merciful thumb. This gallant maneuvered the torpid limb of one black oak or walnut or willow—it's inconsequential at present—the instrument creating a gradient for my exodus from the chasm. And in gratitude, forever more have I brought his penned domicile my offerings. I thought to alleviate the burden of the hunt for his people, to bring them fresh victuals daily. Give them comfort. Give them repose. Let them wolf down my offerings. Ha! I have always had a sad wag to my tongue. Yet now I unearth the accusations of my nefarious behavior. I see what you're after. Well, you have sent these three to off me! Do you have no more women to blame? Are there no more blacks to censure? You have exterminated my brethren the Chippewa to position myself as the fountainhead for all your miscreant ways. With this I cannot accede. No! My generous ways are rescinded. If I am to be your reprobate I shall at least enjoy the malefaction!

You blame me for the future, you blame me for the past
You blame me for the plenty which you never can make last
You blame me for the heat, you blame me for the cold
You blame me for your courage which has never taken hold
You blame me for the light, you blame me for the dark
You blame me for the angels which never come to hark
You blame me for the dry and the wet that makes you ache
You blame me for your love which still has to take
You blame me for the sadness and your work which can't get done
You blame me for the mocking cast of the setting sun

I might as well commit the sins as for being blamed for them!
I might as well commit the sins as for being blamed for them!
As for being blamed for them!

And I have a redux to my thesis, a section 2A to my outline. As I satiated my needed dormancy in the womb of my grotto, escaping the loathsomeness of the sun, in a dream state I concocted my next program that held with a romantic lean—not like one of your matronly Southern poets who will drown themselves upon the first disclosure towards their acts of cribbing. Yet something with cunning; something with irony; it would take astute crackerjack execution. Even, dare I say, swell-headed! I would pad my feet over the nettles of the ebon forest, slink on my belly, succumbing to the chastisement of the thistles as I traverse through the pastel lea. Conscious and wary of the Nimrods lusting for my completion. Oh them Three Nimrods you sent after me! I would perch outside the thin black young trunk like spiked iron bars that encompass the hovel. Then I would flash my red wet smile up to his window, engrossing his youthful curiosity to descend to his cloister. And falling upon my haunch I would entice, then influence the boy to mount upon me as if I were one of your doltish labor beasts. Then I would traverse over the land, making him witness to my wretchedness, corroborator to my upheaval. And he would testify to these undue accusations. And would you people recognize him upon his return? And would this last act be the millstone round the neck of my catalogue of deeds?

You blame me for the future, you blame me for the past
You blame me for the plenty which you never can make last
You blame me for the heat, you blame me for the cold
You blame me for your courage which has never taken hold
You blame me for the light, you blame me for the dark
You blame me for the angels which never come to hark
You blame me for the dry and the wet that makes you ache
You blame me for your love which still has to take
You blame me for the sadness and your work which can't get done
You blame me for the mocking cast of the setting sun

I might as well commit the sins as for being blamed for them!
I might as well commit the sins as for being blamed for them!
As for being blamed for them!

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2 Comments:

Anonymous Rex pontificated to the effect that...

Thanks so much for putting the lyrics up; I love Munly's voice, but I have a devil of a time deciphering what it is he's saying.

One correction, though- I think the angels never come to "hark", not "bark".

11:00 PM  
Blogger Faster, Harder, More Challenging GeoX pontificated to the effect that...

You are very welcome. And you're quite right; I don't know where "bark" comes from. I'd like to be able to say that the booklet got it wrong; but nope, it's entirely my fault. I guess they AREN'T canine angels. I'm fixing it now.

11:29 PM  

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