In the backwash of Fennario
The black and bloody mire
The dire wolf collects his due
While the boys sing 'round the fire
Grateful Dead--Dire Wolf
Curmudgeon wrote:
In the backwash of Fennario
The black and bloody mire
The dire wolf collects his due
While the boys sing 'round the fire
Grateful Dead--Dire Wolf
Whoa Jack, the Dead needed this image fifty years ago, but it is not too late!
That is one angry wolf. I’m betting on him getting what he wants. Very neat presentation.
Talk about marshmallow envy!
What is really missing is the pyromaniacs facial, corporal expression, every is normal, no beast about to feast... Or is it a ghost only visible to a few (like us)?
Rongnongno wrote:
What is really missing is the pyromaniacs facial, corporal expression, every is normal, no beast about to feast... Or is it a ghost only visible to a few (like us)?
Thanks for looking and commenting. You have caused me to look into The Mythic Territory Of Fennario. It first came to my attention from two songs: Pretty Peggy O, a traditional rendition and a take off on that written by Bob Dylan and Dire Wolf written by Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia.
I don't know who wrote this but I'm afraid that mystic land is going to haunt me also.
For some months, I have been haunted with some intensity by the call of Fennario. This is hard to describe or explain — the closest I can come is that my Fennario represents a personal mythic frontier territory. It’s out there beyond the snowy peaks of Sheba’s Breasts, where the treasure of King Solomon’s Mines awaits; it finds us trekking through the haunted forests of Knysna or riding down the Devil’s Backbone in the company of spectral Confederate cavalry and a the ghost of a Lipan Apache hunter. It is a realm inhabited by Dire Wolves, Puckwudgies, and Wendigo.
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