YOO-HOO!...Carla !

[Mortimer]

Now I know you peruse these pages you stealthy little nymph...you.


I will be summering in Billerica this year and wondered if we could get up a game or two of PattyCake-BakersMan.


Let me know,Dahling.


KISS-KISS

[Mortimer]

Was that necessary?


You know...it's rapscallions like you who make some of our Nerdy Trails experiences sour.


If you choose to continue acting like a pork sausage then I shall have no choice but to report you to the proper authorities.


Good day,sir.

[Mortimer]

I guess some children must have their fun.





But I have another real treat for you all this afternoon.

I shall read for you Walt Whitman's delightful epic poim......Song of Myself.




I should hope this reading goes uninterrupted.

[Sightseek]

O Captain! My Captian! is my favorite.

[Mortimer]

Originally Posted by Sightseek

O Captain! My Captian! is my favorite.

God.







I do appreciate your exuberance over Mr. Whitman's fine work...but as I said I am reading Song of Myself.




I begin.






Let's have absolute quite so those who are looking foward to this reading may enjoy it.








I begin.










Did I mention---oh never mind.









I begin.









Song of Myself,

I Celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil,
this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and
their parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never
forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

[Mortimer]

Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-kill'd game,
Falling asleep on the gather'd leaves with my dog and gun
by my side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the
sparkle and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout
joyously from the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck'd my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a
good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-
kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far
west, the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly
smoking, they had moccasins to their feet and large
thick blankets hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins,
his luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held
his bride by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight
locks descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach'd
to her feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him
limpsy and weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured
him,
And brought water and fill'd a tub for his sweated body and
bruis'd feet,
And gave him a room that enter'd from my own, and gave
him some coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his
awkwardness,
And remember putting plasters on the galls of his neck and
ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and
pass'd north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean'd in the
corner.

[horseofcourse]

Actually LeBron James is the author of Song of Myself. He is all things!!!! (Whitman just channeled him in the future.)