There have been intimations (ahem, VP) that the Dueling Bloggers might be willing to lay down arms or banjos. Nothing could be further from the truth. As to the suggestion that I, Kate of The Manic Gardener, An Organic Gardening Blog with Twisted Roots–and no, I don’t want to explain that name at the moment–am ready to beat a retreat, I laugh–ha ha!–and point out that it is James who has just "gone away," as he would put it, though fled would be nearer the truth.
For those of you who stumble, bewildered, upon one of the posts about this ongoing international dispute and who seek an even-handed account of its origins (i.e. you want to know what the hell is going on), good luck. If you find one, let me know. In the meantime, you’ll have to settle for my version, a soon-to-be-available-page on this blog that lists all the relevant posts in order. If I’m miss ing any, tell me. (It tells you something about this dispute that you have to rely on a page that doesn’t yet exist, assembled by one of the main antagonists, to get any information at all.)
With apologies to James, Fred Astaire, all poets, the Thames, and anyone who cares about the English language, I offer the following poetical compositions for your reading pleasure:
A blogger named Black-hearted James
for his sins was once tossed in the Thames;
If you say, “That don’t rhyme,
And me grammar’s just fine,”
You can join in his deep-water games.
The garden of James A.-Sinclair
Could out-tapdance bland Fred Astaire
throw its hats in the air,
toss its shirts everywhere,
And flower its socks off—what flair!
There once was a blogger from Blackpitts
Whose flowers all suffered from sock-fits;
When they bloomed they exploded
(It seems they were loaded)
And tossed their socks skyward in cloth bits.
For crimes against Kate, Blackguard James
Deserved to be flung in the Thames.
Said she, “Keep ‘im dry;
If he’s wet he won’t fry—
What a waste of hell’s hottest flames.”
Last heard of, his garden was bare.
It flowered its socks off,
‘till cops had to block off
The street, and a curfew declare.
A sniveling blackguard named James
Once crossed one of Montana’s dames:
She wanted to shoot ‘im,
But settled for hootin’
and hollering, “Them’s all false claims!”