A Marshmellow Peep Forsees His Death
As mentioned in my blogging on Boskone 2008, there was an amazing amount of creativity surrounding the participation of the Con guests in grinding, mashing, smashing, crushing and many other methods of disposing of marshmellow peeps imaginable. I had my physical moment of peep slaughter:
Running of the Bulls at Peepoloma
And then there was the metaphysical, in which Con attendees were invited to compose a poem, based on the writings of any well-known poet. My contribution follows based on An Irish Airman Forsees His Death:
A Marshmallow Peep Meets His Deathby William Butler Yeats (apologies)
submitted by Bonnie-Ann Black
* * *
I know that I shall meet my FateSomewhere at Boskone, the Consuite of.
Those who grind me, I do not hate
Those who spare me, I do not love.
My country is a little pack
My country peeps chicks, ghosts & more
No microwave end can bring them life
Of make them sweeter than before
No cheering geeks nor Weber fans
Could save me from a gory end
I sweetened all, brought all to mind
A wasted Easter, the year ahead
A wasted Christmas, the year behind
In balance with this Con, these fans.
The rest of the wonderful, wacky and very erudite entries can be found on LiveJournal.
Although the witty Esther Friesner's contribution doesn't appear, I'm particularly fond of entries #14 and #16. I think they capture the true spirit of the enterprise.
Technorati Tags: Boskone, Peeps, William Butler Yeats, Esther M. Friesner
