Post Turtles

While suturing a cut on the hand of a 75 year old farmer, whose hand was caught in the squeeze gate while working cattle, the doctor struck up a conversation with the old man. Eventually the topic got around to Politicians and their role as our leaders.

The old rancher said, "Well, you know, most Politicians are 'Post Turtles'.''
Not being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him, what a 'post turtle' was.

The old rancher said, "When you're driving down a country road and you come across a fence post with a turtle balanced on top, that's a post turtle."

The old rancher saw the puzzled look on the doctor's face so he continued to explain.

"You know he didn't get up there by himself, he doesn't belong up there, he doesn't know what to do while he's up there, he's elevated beyond his ability to function, and you just wonder what kind of dumb arse put him up there to begin with."

The Prospector

Although very few people know this about Brian,  he comes from a family of poets.  While cutting his hair today he informed me that his dad wrote a lot of poetry in his day.  Nothing ever got published,  he said.   As a matter of fact, very few family members have actually ever seen much of his writings.  

But I did manage to persuade Brian to dictate the following poem to me today,  that he wrote himself about his dad, when he was about ten years old.  

This could possibly be the first time this poem has ever been printed...

The Prospector

　

With practiced ease he lifted his pack

And settled it upon his pony's back

Lifting his hat and scratching his head

Checkin’ over his load he said,

Flour, salt, beans and a slab of bacon,

Grub and a bed

That’s all I’m a’ takin’

I’m goin’ way back to the valley below

Where the second blow

Will open her up and the vain will show

Now not much to show for his fifty odd years

With the ropes of his pony

Held in his hand

  The Prospector pulled for the promise land