S imple
L ife
Gone Fishin’
By Jim Dodson
As you read this, I’m sitting by a trout
stream in an undisclosed location somewhere deep in the North Carolina mountains. If I was wrapped in hickory smoked bacon, Lassie probably couldn’t find me.
But fear not, friends, I’ve left behind a few well-chosen words from my dear old friend Ogden Nash, who always has something timely to say.
To Donald on his way to Cleveland:
Love is a word that is constantly heard, Hate is a word that’s not. Love, I’m told, is more precious than gold, Love, I have read, is hot. But hate is the verb that to me is superb, And love is a drug on the mart. Any kiddie in school can love like a fool, But hating, my boy, is an art.
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The danger of a hole in the porch screen: God in his wisdom made the fly And then forgot to tell us why.
The Art & Soul of Wilmington
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An ode to poison ivy:
One bliss for which there is no match, Is, when you itch, To up and scratch.
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Song of the Interstate:
I think I shall never see A billboard lovely as a tree. Indeed, unless the billboards fall I’ll never see a tree at all.
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Wish you weren’t here:
Some hate broccoli, some hate bacon, Some hate having their picture taken. How can your family claim to love you And then demand a picture of you?
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August 2016 •
Salt
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