The fragrant efflorescence of the Arab Spring is, as the old song goes, “busting out all over”. A particularly lovely blossom is the one we so carefully nurtured in Libya, where, as the Times reports today, the nation is descending into sanguinary chaos.
Our love’s labour there is done, it seems; we are busy gardeners, after all, and have other beds to till!
How noble we, to share our blessings so!
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Got a question Malcolm. Maybe a few.
Has the NYT I remember from March of last year completely changed it’s personnel? I realize it’s owners don’t actually do much (just guessing on that observation – figure they might watch the DOW or ask if the limo in the adjoining lane has any Grey Poupon) but what the hell happened to all those editors and writers who were insisting to me then – I was unnecessarily, cynically, pessimistic?
If, Malcolm the (whatchamacallit… “Grey Lady”[?] hasn’t been secretly bought by Rupert Murdoch’s UK bugging department) reckon you can get a message to Ol’ One-Eyed to explain – in simpleton Hillbilly – WTF happened?
Here in Arkansas we fully expected Libya would steal from US what we stole from the Brits – a “drinking song” they’d simply change from something sung opening the festivities accompanying baseball games and NASCAR stuff to something more North African oriented.
What the hell? Did the Libyans contract Roseanne Barr to re-write the lyrics?
Good post, but can I be a little pedantic? Shouldn’t the title be “When daisies pied and violets blue”? Your title is for the summer.
Well, summer is what follows spring, no? And here we are.
Next comes the bounteous harvest.
Of course, the pedant could respond with a quibble about the “old song”, to which, for consistency’s sake, I’d have to respond: late June.
One could also argue that the second stanza is still about spring; the third and fourth are clearly about winter, and autumn is missing altogether. In spring, the maids “bleach their summer frocks” in preparation for summer.
A bit of a jumble all round, I reckon.
One thing for sure: our love’s labour’s lost.
I always wondered why autumn was missing. I used to think that autumn was just very cold in Shakespeare’s England. Global warming, and all …
JK, success has a hundred fathers, while failure is an orphan.