18 and comin' home.

O Danny Boy, the hoops, the hoops are calling
From Tor to 'Ton, and up from the south side.
The others're gone from all the jammo failing;
tis you, tis you must try Grimas survive. 

But come ye back when summer's in the woodvale,
And when whyte ave's all rushed and full with shows.
And we'll be here in lineups outside sold-out shows;
Oh Danny Boy, oh Danny Boy, come to Edmo!

Seventeen. All spelled out.

There is another tri,
Ever marshaled and fair,
And there is another bike race,
Though there be cat-1 there;
Never mind faded PBs,
Never mind stronger fields -
Here is an age category,
Whose pace is lesser keen;
Here is a bigger fuel bar,
Where not a bite has been;
And its unfading powers
Will see your legs still run:
Prithee, my brother,
Onto the podium come!

16 and close to home.

Leah always thought that she married a beef man.
That's what she said, that's what she said.
When he proposed he informed her mother
He owned Bladworth's very last ranch.
And though she's an accountant too, 
Though she's an accountant too,
Though she's an accountant too,
She married him.


Life out in Blad wasn't ever a picnic
More like the Davidson bar
At five am you're out birthing and calving
While you're defrosting the car.
She knew these cows were for meat, But it wasn't 
Something you'd want to discuss.
It wasn't warm.
Well, not in Jan.
Well, not in Sask.

But 
Every cow is beautiful when it's Charolais.
Bulky bulls and lowing steers in white.
Yes, 
Every cow is beautiful when it's Charolais.
Hay!
She was happy... with the Charolais.

15 (okay, I know I'm a bit behind, but that keeps it exciting, right?)

Two codes diverged neath my apple’s hood,
And sorry I could not write them both
And be one developer, long I stood
And hacked down one as far as I could
To where it froze in a bugs-throes;

Then tried the other, as just as bare,
And having perhaps the better frame
Because it was Obj-C and not open- wear,
Though as for that terminal there
Had run them really about the same,

14!

Oh, somewhere in Kenosha-Land the sun in shining bright;

The lake is lapping somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

Somewhere jelly-bellys are still laughing, and grade-one children shout;

But there is no joy at Roxy’s – naughty Paco has snuck out. 

Very lucky 13.

The teaching of Stats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just like your liberal arts class;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a stats prof has THREE DIFFERENT AIMS.
First of all, there's the concepts the students use daily,
Such as Percent, Median, Average or Means,
Such as Sample, Deviation, Null or Variation--
All of them sensible everyday memes.
There are fancier themes if you think they sound meatier,
Some for the theory, some for the games:
Such as Econometrics, Scatter-plots or Bayesian--
But all of them requisite level-one aims.
But I tell you that stats is a class that's particular,
A class that's peculiar, but don’t be petrified,
Else how can one keep up their average percentage,
Or apply to grad school, keep scholarships high?
…

But above and beyond there's still one aim left over,
And that is the aim that you never will guess;
The aim that no student research can discover--
But THE PROF HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a prof in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his aim:
His evaluations and funding,
conference-cunning,
Academic bureaucracy’s ongoing game.

12foryou.

You may write me down as blistery
With my aching, bulgy thighs,
You may splash me with the muddy dirt
But still, like Brad, I'll ride.

Does my carlessness upset you?
Why are you beset with zoom?
'Cause I ride like I've got oil wells
Pumping me from here to Frome.

Just like loons who like runs,
With the GPS as guide,
Just like Hoops’ springtime high,
Still I'll ride.

just a small 11...

Oh, that this too too flaky fish,
would melt, thaw and resolve itself into beef stew.

What is this, 10?

I heard a brother speak last night,
And he said Strife!
Find a noble nurse for me,
And send her over to Calgary.'

I faltered, taking up the word:
'Not so, my bro!
If wifes must be, choose another
don’t send a nurse to wed my brother.

But she is bound by greatitude,
By love of cats,
To brother of mine in Calgary
Who stretch out kindly hands to she.

'Therefore,' the sis said, 'shalt thou wed
a nurse to-night.
From the summits of love a nurse is driven,
As lightning is from the tops of heaven.'

Dec 9th, what an advent day.

I have a ginger kitten that goes in and out with me,

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.

He is very very furry from the heels up to the head;

And I see him jump before me, when I am put to bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to growl –

Not at all like proper babies, with no teeth to show;

For he sometimes shoots off faster than an India-rubber ball,

And he sometimes gets so sleepy that he’s no more fun at all.