From time to time I have come across or been sent some incredible writings, poems, etc. that just beg for publication. I have collected some of these and have published them here for your enjoyment. Some have been written by friends and others by strangers, but in all cases they are worthy of learning.

If you have a favorite monologue or poem that you think would fit in here please send it to me for my review and I may include it.

This page is fairly long so you might want to print it out. Other than the public domain works all of these poem are copyrighted by the author

Dane-geld
(A.D. 980-1016)
by Rudyard Kipling

It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation,
To call upon a neighbour and to say—
"We invaded you last night—we are quite prepared to fight,
Unless you pay us cash to go away."

And that is called asking for Dane-geld,
And the people who ask it explain
That you’ve only to pay ’em the Dane-geld
And then you’ll get rid of the Dane!

It is always a temptation to a rich and lazy nation,
To puff and look important and to say—
"Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the time to meet you.
We will therefore pay you cash to go away."

And that is called paying the Dane-geld;
But we’ve proved it again and again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
For fear they should succumb and go astray,
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
You will find it better policy to say—

"We never pay any-one Dane-geld,
No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the nation that plays it is lost!"

The Eternal Value of Privacy
Copyright © 2006, Bruce Schneier
Used with permission

The most common retort against privacy advocates -- by those in favor of ID checks, cameras, databases, data mining and other wholesale surveillance measures -- is this line "If you aren't doing anything wrong, what do you have to hide?"

Some clever answers:

"If I'm not doing anything wrong, then you have no cause to watch me."

"Because the government gets to define what's wrong, and they keep changing the definition."

"Because you might do something wrong with my information."

My problem with quips like these -- as right as they are -- is that they accept the premise that privacy is about hiding a wrong. It's not. Privacy is an inherent human right, and a requirement for maintaining the human condition with dignity and respect.

Two proverbs say it best "Quis custodiet custodes ipsos?" ("Who watches the watchers?") and "Absolute power corrupts absolutely."

Cardinal Richelieu understood the value of surveillance when he famously said, "If one would give me six lines written by the hand of the most honest man, I would find something in them to have him hanged." Watch someone long enough, and you'll find something to arrest--or just blackmail--with.

Privacy is important because without it, surveillance information will be abused to peep, to sell to marketers and to spy on political enemies--whoever they happen to be at the time. Privacy protects us from abuses by those in power, even if we're doing nothing wrong at the time of surveillance.

We do nothing wrong when we make love or go to the bathroom. We are not deliberately hiding anything when we seek out private places for reflection or conversation. We keep private journals, sing in the privacy of the shower, and write letters to secret lovers and then burn them. Privacy is a basic human need.

A future in which privacy would face constant assault was so alien to the framers of the Constitution that it never occurred to them to call out privacy as an explicit right. Privacy was inherent to the nobility of their being and their cause. Of course being watched in your own home was unreasonable. Watching at all was an act so unseemly as to be inconceivable among gentlemen in their day. You watched convicted criminals, not free citizens. You ruled your own home. It's intrinsic to the concept of liberty.

For if we are observed in all matters, we are constantly under threat of correction, judgment, criticism, even plagiarism of our own uniqueness. We become children, fettered under watchful eyes, constantly fearful that--either now or in the uncertain future -- patterns we leave behind will be brought back to implicate us, by whatever authority has now become focused upon our once-private and innocent acts. We lose our individuality, because everything we do is observable and recordable.

How many of us have paused during conversation in the past four-and-a-half years, suddenly aware that we might be eavesdropped on? Probably it was a phone conversation, although maybe it was an e-mail or instant-message exchange or a conversation in a public place. Maybe the topic was terrorism, or politics, or Islam. We stop suddenly, momentarily afraid that our words might be taken out of context, then we laugh at our paranoia and go on. But our demeanor has changed, and our words are subtly altered.

This is the loss of freedom we face when our privacy is taken from us. This is life in former East Germany, or life in Saddam Hussein's Iraq. And it's our future as we allow an ever-intrusive eye into our personal, private lives.

Too many wrongly characterize the debate as "security versus privacy." The real choice is liberty versus control. Tyranny, whether it arises under threat of foreign physical attack or under constant domestic authoritative scrutiny, is still tyranny. Liberty requires security without intrusion, security plus privacy. Widespread police surveillance is the very definition of a police state. And that's why we should champion privacy even when we have nothing to hide.

Bruce Schneier is the CTO of Counterpane Internet Security (www.counterpane.com) and the author of
Beyond Fear: Thinking Sensibly About Security in an Uncertain World.

The Bequest
Paul Kirchner

Most ways, I would say, my father did well
In getting me started in life,
In hand with my mother he made us a home
devoid of want and of strife.

So I hate to admit it, but in one way he failed me
--And here, a sob I must stifle--
Though he provided most of my needs,
He did not bequeath me a rifle.

Had the Guru not told us what the best rifle is,
This might not have been such a bother
But he said the best rifle a man can own
Is the one given him by his father.

As my dad did not have one, I had to go out
And purchase my own Winchester,
But it was not part of my patrimony
And that shame began to fester.

Then I thought about fathers and how we have more
Than the one who set us on our way
There’s all of the fathers who stand behind him,
Who’ve bequeathed us what we have today.

I thought of our fathers who lived life as hunters
For thousands and thousands of years,
How the thrill of the chase was no sport to them,
but the sum of their hopes and their fears.

How they must have dreamed of a weapon to reach,
Beyond the range of their spears--
To drop an animal dead in its tracks
before it could prick up its ears.

In my veins still runs the hunters’ blood
And their instinct for survival;
And so I can say, these men were my fathers
And bequeathed to me my rifle.

And I thought of our fathers who settled the land,
planting civilization’s seeds,
Creating a world where a man might own
a little more than he needs.

They lived under threat from savage men
Who envied what they had earned,
And who gathered in force and swept down upon them
And slaughtered, and pillaged, and burned.

How our fathers must have yearned for a weapon
that a man could hold in his hands,
With which he could kill, one by one, at a distance,
those armed marauding bands.

This will to be able to stand my ground
Deep in my soul still breathes;
And so, to me, these fathers too,
My rifle did bequeath.

And I thought of those whose strong, striving minds
Made this dream of a weapon real,
Wresting the fullest potential
Out of gunpowder, lead, and steel.

Through the genius of these, our fathers,
This marvel was conceived,
Part of the generous legacy
That we’ve all been bequeathed.

And there’s another set of fathers
To whom I owe my thanks,
Those who bravely took up arms
And joined Revolution’s ranks.

They knew that their Republic
Would be safe from tyranny
Only as long as it’s guarded
By men who are armed and free.

It was their will that we should all
Keep and bear Liberty’s Teeth;
They, more than anyone,
Did this rifle, to me, bequeath.

For more than half my life now,
My rifle’s been with me,
And though I’ve aged it still remains
Much as it used to be.

Now I’m a father and one day plan
To pass it to my son,
And I hope he too will pass it on
when his need for it is done.

But I think that now I understand
That a father’s legacy,
Extends beyond the limits
Of his direct progeny.

And for all I know it may well be
That one of my descendants
Will not see my rifle
As his tool of independence.

If so, I say, let him sell it off
As if it were some trifle--
It’s to the one who knows its worth
That I bequeath my rifle.

Jim Crews is an instructor of weaponry of the first class and is always ready to examine new ideas, learn from them, and apply what is learned--something we should all do.

The Quitter
by Robert W. Service

When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child,
And Death looks you bang in the eye,
And you're sore as a boil, it's according to Hoyle
To cock your revolver and . . . die.
But the Code of a Man says: "Fight all you can,"
And self-dissolution is barred.
In hunger and woe, oh, it's easy to blow . . .
It's the hell-served-for-breakfast that's hard.

"You're sick of the game!" Well, now that's a shame.
You're young and you're brave and you're bright.
“You've had a raw deal!" I know--but don't squeal,
Buck up, do your damnedest, and fight.
It's the plugging away that will win you the day,
So don't be a piker, old pard!
Just draw on your grit, it's so easy to quit.
It's the keeping-your chin-up that's hard.

It's easy to cry that you're beaten--and die;
It's easy to crawfish and crawl;
But to fight and to fight when hope's out of sight-
Why that's the best game of them all!
And though you come out of each grueling bout,
All broken and battered and scarred,
Just have one more try--it's dead easy to die,
It's the keeping-on-living that's hard.

"Grandpa's Lesson."

Pappy took to drinkin' back when I was barely three.
Ma got pretty quiet. She was frettin', you could see.
So I was sent to Grandpa and he raised me up real good.
He taught me what I oughta and he taught me what I should.

I learned a heap 'o lessons from the yarns he liked to tell.
There's one I won't forget because I learned it 'speshly well.
There jist ain't many folk who live a peaceful, carefree life.
Along with all the good times there'll be lotsa grief and strife.

But there ain't many troubles that a man caint fix
With seven hundred dollars and a thirty ought six."

Grandpa courted Grandma near the town of old Cheyenne.
Her daddy was cantankerous - a very greedy man.
He wouldn't give permission for a fancy wedding day
'Til grandpa paid a dowry - biggest ever people say.

Her daddy softened up when Grandpa said that he could fix
Him up with seven hundred dollars and a thirty ought six.

Grandpa herded cattle down around Jalisco way.
Ended up behind some iron bars one dusty day.
Seems the local jefe craved my Grandpa's pinto mare.
Grandpa wouldn't sell her so he lit on out of there.

Didn't take much doin' 'cept a couple special tricks
Plus seven hundred dollars and his thirty ought six.

Then there was that Faro game near San Francisco Bay.
Grandpa's cards was smokin' hot and he took all one day.
He woke up nearly naked in a ditch next early morn'.
With nothin' but his flannel shirt, and it was ripped and torn.

Those others were professionals and they don't play for kicks.
He lost seven hundred dollars and his thirty ought six.

He begged some woolen trousers off the local storekeep there
Who loaned him both a pony and a rifle on a dare.
He caught those thievin' cardsharks at another Faro game.
He got back all his property and also his good name.

He left one bleedin' badly and another mostly lame.
My Grandpa's trusty rifle shoots just where you choose to aim.

Grandpa's slowin' down a bit and just the other night
He handed me his rifle and a box sealed up real tight.
He fixed me with them pale grey eyes and this is what he said,
"You're awful young but steady too and I will soon be dead.

I'll bet this here old rifle and this honest money too
Will come in mighty handy just as readily for you.
There jist ain't many folk who lead a carefree peaceful life.
Along with times of happiness, there's always woe and strife.

But.....ain't many troubles that a man caint fix
with seven hundred dollars and his thirty ought six."

Lindy Cooper Wisdom

"The tree of liberty must be refreshed, from time to time, with the blood of patriots and tyrants." -- Thomas Jefferson

Walking Rifleman

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
It adds not a bit to his load.
It makes him in fact somewhat lighter,
For he walks as a free man, unbowed.

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
He's master of all he can see.
A good man won't abuse the position,
Still--a master's a fine thing to be.

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
He'll keep his eye sharp, his wits keen,
For that's not just a tart he's escortin'
No, that lady beside him's a queen.

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
Its condition doesn't matter to me.
He can load it however he chooses,
So long as he lives by Rule Three.

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
And he needs a second shot quick,
He'll be glad of the time spent on homework,
When he mastered reflexive bolt-flick.

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
And he's hunting, to feed him and his,
Well, he's living the way God intended,
And that's just the way that it is.

When a man takes his rifle awalkin'
As some say he should not be allowed,
Well, they'd better be saying it softly,
For a man with a rifle is proud.

So if you take your rifle awalkin'
Realize what you're saying, my friend.
You're saying that you are a free man,
And woe be to him who butts in.

So let's take our rifles awalkin'
With pride--defiance if need.
If we don't want to be the last riflemen,
Then we've got to re-sow freedom's seed.

Yes! Let's take our rifles awalkin'
And we'll walk in the light, so they'll see.
And if they come to tell us we cannot,
Then we'll water the liberty tree

Joe Sledge
Grand Junction, Colorado

Written for Col. Jeff Cooper and first recited in Botswana on the occasion of his 79th birthday. It's about the mindset the author learned from him; hence the title.

Okavango Birthday Tribute 1998

History makes this lesson quite plain;
It's apparent to men of clear sight.
No people ever threw off tyranny
Unless they were willing to fight.

When the Israelites cowered and hid in their holes,
Before Goliath, of singular might,
Young David came forward with a sling and a stone,
And he meant to prevail in that fight.

When the founders grew tired of the greed of the king,
They stood up as men, to full height.
They sought no appeasement, nor compromise.
They said, "Leave us alone, or we'll fight!".

When Theodore Roosevelt led his men up San Juan,
Their training, and his, had been slight.
Some fell, and some died, but they took that hill,
Because they went to Cuba to fight.

It's really just silly, this "New Age" idea
That self defense is passe', and just... not right.
We simply can't cede deadly force to the evil.
We must always stand ready to fight.

If a goblin assaults you on the streets of your town,
And demands things to which he's no right,
Your duty is clear- there's only one course.
With all that you have you must fight.

These traitors who want all our guns have a plan:
They'll eat the whole pie, bite by bite.
My friends, we can make them choke on that meal,
But we have to be willing to fight.

A man's liberty cannot be taken by force.
He can only surrender that right.
The whole scheme depends on obedient sheep.
It simply won't work if we fight.

Don't tell me that you're unsure what you'll do.
"Well, I-I don't know if I'll stand, b-but I might!".
If you don't know, then I know what you'll do.
You must hard-set your mind that you'll fight.

When the ninja come to gather my guns,
And they surround my house in the night,
I won't be disarmed. No! Not while I live.
Mark this one thing well: I'll fight.

Joe Sledge
Grand Junction, Colorado

Essential to the defense of freedom is the absolute resistance of tyranny. If tyrants know we will fight to the death in our defense of our Constitutionally affirmed God-given rights then we may continue to enjoy peace, for they know that even if they kill us all they will have lost more than they could possibly have gained.

Churchill spoke the truth when he said: "Still if you will not fight for the right when you can easily win without bloodshed, if you will not fight when your victory will be sure and not so costly, you may come to the moment when you will have to fight with all the odds against you and only a precarious chance for survival. There may be a worse case. You may have to fight when there is no chance of victory, because it is better to perish than to live as slaves."

My family will never be disarmed. We will never be loaded passively on the cattle cars to be hauled away to the camps. We are God's children and we will go home to Him before we submit to the murderers and rapists who people this government. This spirit of absolute resistance is what enabled Switzerland to survive during WWII when every republic in Europe was consumed by the Reich.

I pray that the hearts of all are moved to greater resolve by the following words:

"Everywhere, where the order is to hold, it is the duty of conscience of each fighter, even if he depends on himself alone, to fight at his assigned position. The riflemen, if overtaken or surrounded, fight in their position until no more ammunition exists. Then cold steel is next.... The machine-gunners, the cannoneers of heavy weapons, the artillerymen, if in the bunker or on the field, do not abandon or destroy their weapons, or allow the enemy to seize them. The crews fight further like riflemen. As long as a man has another cartridge or hand weapons to use, he does not yield." -- General Henri Guisan Commander In Chief of the Swiss militia during WWII, From "Target Switzerland" by Halbrook

The Ghost From Valley Forge

I had a dream the other night I didn't understand,
A figure walking through the mist, with flintlock in his hand.
His clothes were torn and dirty, as he stood there by my bed,
He took off his three-cornered hat, and speaking low he said:

We fought a revolution to secure our liberty,
We wrote the Constitution, as a shield from tyranny.
For future generations, this legacy we gave,
In this, the land of the free and home of the brave.

The freedom we secured for you, we hoped you'd always keep,
But tyrants labored endlessly while your parents were asleep.
Your freedom gone - your courage lost - you're no more than
a slave,
In this, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

You buy permits to travel, and permits to own a gun,
Permits to start a business, or to build a place for one.
On land that you believe you own, you pay a yearly rent,
Although you have no voice in choosing how the money's spent.

Your children must attend a school that doesn't educate,
Your moral values can't be taught, according to the state.
You read about the current "news" in a very biased press,
You pay a tax you do not owe, to please the IRS.

Your money is no longer made of silver or of gold
You trade your wealth for paper, so life can be controlled.
You pay for crimes that make our Nation turn from God to shame,
You've taken Satan's number, as you've traded in your name.

You've given government control to those who do you harm,
So they can padlock churches, and steal the family farm.
And keep our country deep in debt, put men of God in jail,
Harass your fellow countryman while corrupted courts prevail.

Your public servants don't uphold the solemn oath they're sworn,
Your daughters visit doctors so children won't be born.
Your leaders ship artillery and guns to foreign shores,
And send your sons to slaughter, fighting other people's wars.

Can you regain your Freedom for which we fought and died?
Or don't you have the courage, or the faith to stand with pride?
Are there no more values for which you'll fight to save?
Or do you wish your children live in fear and be a slave?

Sons of the Republic, arise and take a stand!
Defend the Constitution, the Supreme Law of the Land!
Preserve our Republic, and each God-given right!
And pray to God to keep the torch of freedom burning bright!

As I awoke he vanished, in the mist from whence he came,
His words were true, we are not free, and we have ourselves
to blame.
For even now as tyrants trample each God-given right,
We only watch and tremble -- too afraid to stand and fight.

If he stood by your bedside in a dream while you're asleep,
And wonder what remains of your right he fought to keep.
What would be your answer if he called out from the grave?
Is this still the land of the free and home of the brave?

Author Unknown

Note, just substitute names from the current administration for Justinian and crew and you will be able to see the WHY of things as they are at the present.

The West had long been preparing to receive them, too. Generations of fighting against Alans, Gepids, Goths, and Huns, and of fighting with them shoulder to shoulder, in alliance now with one and now with the other, had transformed the Roman military state into the thing it had been fighting. Narses consciously and successfully employed not Roman but Hunnish tactics against the Franks, and the closing chapters of Jordanes show a Roman army indistinguishable from any barbarian horde. The last chapter of all makes the significant remark that the ultimate victor to emerge from the world shambles was "victor gentium diversarum Justinianus Imperator" (the Emperor Justinian, conqueror of diverse peoples). It was in this man Justinian that the Huns won a great and abiding victory over the West.

The Emperor Justinian displayed at all times a single-minded devotion to the Huns that puzzles and dismays historians. Apparently there was nothing he would not do to please the Huns, even to the wrecking of his own foreign policyand the ruination of trade and agriculture throughout the empire. A passionate devotee of the factionists, he had worn their Persian beards, Hunnish hairdo, Hunnish cloaks, Hunnish shirts, and Hunnish shoes,the girdles and brooches of the steppes having already supplanted the more civilized styles of the West."The greatest destroyer of established institutions that ever lived," Justinian was determined to make the Western world "completely change its clothes" and he succeeded.

All the absurdities and contradictions in his policies vanish if we consider that this Illyrian, who hated Greek things, was set upon becoming a grand khan. Justinian handed over the wealth of the state to the Huns "who were always turning up" at court (a significant note) in ever increasing numbers. He would claim for himself all the private property of the citizens, either charging the Romans with a crime or pretending that it was all being brought in to him as gifts, and then promptly give it all away again to the Hunnish lords before his throne: a thing that made perfectly good sense to his visitors from the steppes but appeared to his Roman subjects as "a thing that had never happened since the beginning of time." What he did not thus throw away to the barbarians, says Procopius, he wasted on absurd buildings, constructed simply to outshine all other emperors—a thing that any khan would have understood. This Hun-worship actually amounted to the enslaving of the empire, says Procopius and Agathias, but that was how Justinian wanted it. He insisted that all his subjects, from top to bottom, be called his slaves, and instituted the strictly Central Asiatic style of prostration and foot-kissing. He was not averse to giving the impression of being a sort of super-shaman and apparently even adopted the well-known Mongol custom of making those who entered his presence step clear of the threshold. In short, "instead of acting like a Roman Emperor, he was the complete barbarian in language, dress, and thought. "What more could one ask? The welcome barbarians poured into court from all directions, to the immense delight of the emperor, who never failed to send them away loaded with gold,till presently "the barbarians in general became complete masters of the wealth of the Romans. "In the end, all the offices and officials of the state were supplanted by one office—the royal court, and by two persons—the emperor and empress, for the new ascendancy of the empress, intensely resented by Procopius, was the crowning Asiatic touch.

Justinian's weird innovations were no ephemeral thing. They were but the culmination of that process of Asianizing which had been deplored by the poets of the Republic. And they were there to stay...

This from Kipling speaks to us across the ages--80 years downstream it still holds true. Perhaps more true than before. I believe the background is related to the fact that Sir Rudyard's son had been killed in the meaningless morass of the Great War. The message is: we never learn. It's fairly long but it's elegant.

The Gods of the Copybook Headings
by Rudyard Kipling - 1919

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
Make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
'eering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four --
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

* * * * *

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man --
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began --
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mice,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wobbling back to the Fire--
And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

A Hunter's Half-life

I'm a hunter; I've never been other.
I've lived for the stalk and the kill.
The left wants to outlaw my passion,
But if they say I can't hunt-I still will.

It comes not from my father, nor my raising.
It was right there within me at birth.
My determination baffled my father,
But he indulged me, with affectionate mirth.

At seven, my targets were sparrows.
The handsome songbirds were forbidden.
I wanted to obey my father,
But I once shot a cardinal and hid him.

My maternal grandfather was a hunter,
And at twelve I came under his wing.
That majestic old Texan was illiterate,
But he was a hunter, and that was the thing.

We drove the East Texas backroads for rabbits.
I stood on the toolbox in back.
With my rifle in hand, my Pa Shelton in command,
We brought dozens of meals to the blacks.

In due time I moved to Montana,
And I slew the great beasts of my dreams.
But I left my right arm in Montana,
And a daughter was born-my new queen.

So priorities necessarily altered,
And I left that great northern redoubt.
But my love for the hunt never faltered.
How could it? It's what I'm about.

Over time my blood lust has diminished.
It's the freedom- no, it's the wildness I crave.
But next week Colin and Steve will be like the young me,
And I'll give back what my grandfather gave.

Here lately, I've gone back to rabbits,
And returned to the old twenty-two.
Of course the one I shoot now wears a scoutscope,
But that old iron-sight Winchester would do.

Because I no longer try for a limit.
I'll shoot two or three, then come in.
But Lord, I miss that old red-headed Rusty,
Always ranging out front, with that grin.

Now, I still want a goat and a bighorn,
And someday my tags will be drawn.
But 'til that glorious day, I'll be doing OK,
Just heading out after rabbits at dawn.

You see, my Orion dreams have been realized.
And more, and better, as well.
"Waidmann's Heil!" from Jeff Cooper in Botswana-
How much that means, I simply can't tell.

So- I've been two score years a hunter.
I'm a predator, down to my core.
And while the way that I hunt keeps on changing,
Good Lord willing, I'll hunt forty more.

Joe Sledge
Grand Junction, Colorado

Thomas Moore
from Irish Melodies, vol. 10

Lay his sword by his side - it hath served him too well*
Not to rest near his pillow below;
To the last moment true, from his hand ere it fell,
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe.

Fellow-labourers in life, let them slumber in death,
Side by side, as becomes the reposing brave
That sword which he loved still unbroke in its sheath,
And himself unsubdued in his grave.

Yet pause - for, in fancy, a still voice I hear,
As if breathed from his brave heart's remains;
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear,
Once sounded the war-word, "Burst your chains."

And it cries, from the grave where the hero lies deep,
"Though the day of your Chieftain for ever hath set,
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to sleep
It hath victory's life in it yet!

"Should some alien, unworthy such weapon to wield,
Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword,
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd,
Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord.

But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath learn'd the proud use
Of a falchion, like thee, on the battle-plain,
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning let loose,
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again!"

* It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of the Scythians, to bury the favourite swords of their heroe along with them.

Ode To The Media
by David L. Creighton

You media pansies may squeal and may squirm,
But a fightin' man knows that the way to confirm,
That some jihadist bastard truly is dead,
Is a brain-tappin' round fired into his head.
To hell with some wienie with his journalist degree
Safe away from the combat, tryin' to tell me,
I should check him for breathin,' examine his eyes.
Nope, I'm punchin' his ticket to Muj paradise.

To hell with you wimps from your Ivy League schools,
Sittin' far from the war tellin' me about rules
And preachin' to me your wrong-headed contention
That I should observe the Geneva Convention,
Which doesn't apply to a terrorist scum
So evil and cruel their own people run from,
Cold-blooded killers who love to behead,
Shove that mother' Geneva, I'm leavin' em dead.

You slick talkingheads may preach, preen and prattle,
But you're damn well not here in the thick of the battle.
It's chaotic, confusin' it all comes at you fast,
So it's Muj checkin' out because I'm going to last.
Yeah, I'll last through this fight and send his ass away
To his fat ugly virgins while I'm still in play.
If you journalist wienies think that's cold, cruel and crass,
Then pucker up sweeties, kiss a fightin' man's ass.

The Goblin and the Raven
by Greg Mactye

A pretty little raven went out walking late one night,
She had come to see the city and had gone out for a bite.
Now this city was a wicked place, with dangers never lacking,
And the raven knew this well, so she made sure that she was ‘packing’.

But she tried to take a short-cut down a street devoid of light,
(Which wasn’t very clever in this city, late at night!)
She did not know but soon would learn, that lurking on this street,
Was a dirty rotten coward, a cretin and a creep!

But the goblin saw the raven, and with lust his heart was filled.
He decided he would have her, and cared not if blood was spilled!
What the goblin didn’t know was that the raven was aware.
He never stopped to figure that she knew that he was there.

So he stepped from out the shadows dark, and with an evil sneer,
Said, "I’ve got a special fate for you – now darling, do come here!"
But our pretty little raven had no need to fear this fellow,
She was able, she was armed, and she was in ‘Condition yellow’!

The raven never faltered, never altered, didn’t run,
She simply opened up her purse and calmly drew her gun.
She double-tapped him center mass, then raised her pistol high,
And taking careful aim, she shot him right between the eyes!

Said the raven to the goblin, "When I do a thing it’s done right!"
"You should have chosen someone weaker - I’m a graduate of Gunsite!"

"What I Have Learned From The Twentieth Century"
(With Thanks to schoolmasters Josef Stalin, Adolf Hitler, Benito Mussolini, Mao Tse-Tung and Pol Pot for the Teaching.)
by Mike Vanderboegh

Reflect upon these six lessons. Folks who wish to live free and prosperous in the next century would do well to understand the failures of the last.

Lesson No. 1
If a bureaucrat, or a soldier sent by a bureaucrat, comes to knock down your door and take you someplace you don't want to go because of who you are or what you think-- kill him. If you can, kill the politician who sent them. You will likely die anyway, and you will be saving someone else the same fate. For it is a universal truth that the intended victims always far outnumber the tyrant's executioners. Any nation, which practices this lesson, will quickly run out of executioners and tyrants, or they will run out of liberty.

Lesson No. 2
If a bureaucrat, or a soldier sent by a bureaucrat, comes to knock down your door and confiscate your firearms-- kill him. The disarmament of law-abiding citizens is the required precursor to genocide.

Lesson No. 3
If a bureaucrat tells you that he must know if you have a firearm, so he can put your name on a list for the common good, or wants to issue you an identity card so that you may be more easily identified-- tell him to go to hell. Registration of people and firearms is the required precursor to the tyranny, which permits genocide. Bureaucrats cannot send soldiers to doors that aren't on their list.

Lesson No. 4
Believe actions, not words. Tyrants are consummate liars. Just because a tyrant is "democratically elected" doesn't mean that he believes in democracy. Reference Adolf Hitler, 1932. And just because a would-be tyrant mouths words of reverence to law and justice, or takes a solemn oath to uphold a constitution, doesn't mean he believes such concepts apply to him. Reference Bill Clinton, among others. The language of the lie is just another tool of killers. A sign saying "Arbeit Macht Frei" (Work Makes You Free) posted above an execution camp gate doesn't mean that anybody gets out of there alive, and a room labeled "Showers" doesn't necessarily make you clean. Bill Clinton notwithstanding, the meaning of "is" is plain when such perverted language gets you killed. While all tyrants are liars, it is true that not all political liars are would-be tyrants-- but they bear close watching. And keep your rifle handy.

Lesson No. 5
Our constitutional republic as crafted by the Founders is the worst form of government in the world, except when compared to all the others. Capitalism, as well, is a terrible way to run an economy, except when compared to all other economic systems. Unrestrained democracy is best expressed as two wolves and a sheep sitting down to vote on what to have for dinner. The horrors of collectivism in all its forms-- socialism, communism, national socialism, fascism-- have been demonstrated beyond dispute by considerable wasteful trial and bloody error. Ask the 200 million dead that collectivism brutally slaughtered in this century. Leaders such as Bill Clinton who view the Constitution as inconvenient and ignorable are harbingers of tyranny.

Lesson No. 6
While nations do not always get the leaders they deserve, they always get the leaders they tolerate. And anyone who tells you that "It Can't Happen Here" is whistling past the graveyard of history. There is no "house rule" that bars tyranny coming to America. History is replete with republics whose people grew complacent and descended into imperial butchery and chaos. Dictators count on the assistance of people who are complacent, fearful, envious, lazy and corrupt. While there is no "Collective guilt" to the crimes of a regime (all such crimes being committed by specific criminal individuals), there is certainly "collective responsibility"--especially for those who watch the criminals at work without objecting or interfering. A French journalist of the last century wrote "I must speak out for I will not be an accomplice." Evil tyrants require, indeed they depend upon, willing and unwilling accomplices-- good people who would never think of harming a soul themselves. Lenin called such people "useful idiots". DeTocqueville observed that "America is great because America is good. When America ceases to be good, she will cease to be great." As related in the Old Testament, God judged nations based upon the immorality and criminality of their leaders. Entire peoples were scourged because of their failure to remove corrupt leaders. As we move from the Twentieth Century into the twenty-first, we should take care to remember the ancient story of Sodom and Gomorrah. If we wish to avoid the butchery of the Twentieth Century and the righteous judgment of the God of our antiquity, we would do well to keep our Bibles, our Constitution and our firearms close at hand.

Not so long ago and in a pasture too uncomfortably close to here, a flock of sheep lived and grazed. They were protected by a dog, who answered to the master, but despite his best efforts from time to time a nearby pack of wolves would prey upon the flock.

One day a group of sheep, bolder than the rest, met to discuss their dilemma. "Our dog is good, and vigilant, but he is one and the wolves are many. The wolves he catches are not always killed, and the master judges and releases many to prey again upon us, for no reason we can understand. What can we do? We are sheep, but we do not wish to be food, too!"

One sheep spoke up, saying "It is his teeth and claws that make the wolf so terrible to us. It is his nature to prey, and he would find any way to do it, but it is the tools he wields that make it possible. If we had such teeth, we could fight back, and stop this savagery." The other sheep clamored in agreement, and they went together to the old bones of the dead wolves heaped in the corner of the pasture, and gathered fang and claw and made them into weapons.

That night, when the wolves came, the newly armed sheep sprang up with their weapons and struck at them, crying, "Begone! We are not food!" and drove off the wolves, who were astonished. When did sheep become so bold and so dangerous to wolves? When did sheep grow teeth? It was unthinkable!

The next day, flush with victory and waving their weapons, they approached the flock to pronounce their discovery. But as they drew nigh, the flock huddled together and cried out, "Baaaaaaaadddd! Baaaaaddd things! You have bad things! We are afraid! You are not sheep!"

The brave sheep stopped, amazed. "But we are your brethren!" they cried. "We are still sheep, but we do not wish to be food. See, our new teeth and claws protect us and have saved us from slaughter. They do not make us into wolves, they make us equal to the wolves, and safe from their viciousness!"

"Baaaaaaad!" cried the flock, "the things are bad and will pervert you, and we fear them. You cannot bring them into the flock!" So the armed sheep resolved to conceal their weapons, for although they had no desire to panic the flock, they wished to remain in the fold. But they would not return to those nights of terror, waiting for the wolves to come.

In time, the wolves attacked less often and sought easier prey, for they had no stomach for fighting sheep who possessed tooth and claw even as they did. Not knowing which sheep had fangs and which did not, they came to leave sheep out of their diet almost completely except for the occasional raid, from which more than one wolf did not return.

Then came the day when, as the flock grazed beside the stream, one sheep’s weapon slipped from the folds of her fleece, and the flock cried out in terror again, "Baaaaaad! You still possess these evil things! We must ban you from our presence!"

And so they did. The great chief sheep and his council, encouraged by the words of their advisors, placed signs and totems at the edges of the pasture forbidding the presence of hidden weapons there. The armed sheep protested before the council, saying, "It is our pasture, too, and we have never harmed you! When can you say we have caused you hurt? It is the wolves, not we, who prey upon you. We are still sheep, but we are not food!" But the flock drowned them out with cries of "Baaaaaaddd! We will not hear your clever words! You and your things are evil and will harm us!"

Saddened by this rejection, the armed sheep moved off and spent their days on the edges of the flock, trying from time to time to speak with their brethren to convince them of the wisdom of having such teeth, but meeting with little success. They found it hard to talk to those who, upon hearing their words, would roll back their eyes and flee, crying "Baaaaddd! Bad things!"

That night, the wolves happened upon the sheep’s totems and signs, and said, "Truly, these sheep are fools! They have told us they have no teeth! Brothers, let us feed!" And they set upon the flock, and horrible was the carnage in the midst of the fold. The dog fought like a demon, and often seemed to be in two places at once, but even he could not halt the slaughter.

It was only when the other sheep arrived with their weapons that the wolves fled, only to remain on the edge of the pasture and wait for the next time they could prey, for if the sheep were so foolish once, they would be so again. This they did, and do still.

In the morning, the armed sheep spoke to the flock, and said, "See? If the wolves know you have no teeth, they will fall upon you. Why be prey? To be a sheep does not mean to be food for wolves!" But the flock cried out, more feebly for their voices were fewer, though with no less terror, "Baaaaaaaad! These things are bad! If they were banished, the wolves would not harm us! Baaaaaaad!"

So they resolved to retain their weapons, but to conceal them from the flock; to endure their fear and loathing, and even to protect their brethren if the need arose, until the day the flock learned to understand that as long as there were wolves in the night, sheep would need teeth to repel them.

Integrity
From a speech delivered by Gen. Charles C. Krulak, 27 January, 2000, at JSCOPE 2000

Integrity as we know it today, stands for soundness of moral principle and character - uprightness - honesty. Yet there is more. Integrity is also an ideal, a goal to strive for, and for a man or woman to "walk in their integrity" is to require constant discipline and usage. The word integrity itself is a martial word that comes to us from an ancient roman army tradition.

During the time of the 12 Caesars, the roman army would conduct morning inspections. As the inspecting centurion would come in front of each Legionnaire, the soldier would strike with his right fist the armor breastplate that covered his heart. The armor had to be strongest there in order to protect the heart from the sword thrusts and from arrow strikes. As the soldier struck his armor, he would shout "integritas", (in-teg'-ri-tas) which in Latin means material wholeness, completeness, and entirety. The inspecting centurion would listen closely for this affirmation and also for the ring that well kept armor would give off. Satisfied that the armor was sound and that the soldier beneath it was protected, he would then move on to the next man.

At about the same time, the Praetorians or imperial bodyguard were ascending into power and influence. Drawn from the best "politically correct" soldiers of the legions, they received the finest equipment and armor. They no longer had to shout "integritas" to signify that their armor was sound. Instead, as they struck their breastplate, they would shout "hail Caesar," to signify that their heart belonged to the imperial personage, not to their unit, not to an institution nor to a code of ideals. They armored themselves to serve the cause of a single man.

A century passed and the rift between the legion and the imperial bodyguard and its excesses grew larger. To signify the difference between the two organizations, the legionnaire, upon striking his armor would no longer shout "Integritas", but instead would shout "integer" (in'-te-ger). Integer means undiminished , complete, or perfect. It not only indicated that the armor was sound, it also indicated that the soldier wearing the armor was sound of character. He was complete in his integrity, his heart was in the right place and his standards and morals were high. He was not associated with the immoral conduct that was rapidly becoming the signature of the Praetorian guards.

The armor of integrity continued to serve the legion well. For over four centuries they held the line against the marauding goths and vandals but by 383 AD, the social decline that infected the republic and the Praetorian Guard had its effects upon the legion. As a 4th century roman general wrote, "when, because of negligence and laziness, parade ground drills were abandoned, the customary armor began to feel heavy since the soldiers rarely, if ever, wore it. Therefore, they first asked the emperor to set aside the breastplates and mail and then the helmets. So our soldiers fought the Goths without any protection for the heart and head and were often beaten by archers. Although there were many disasters, which lead to the loss of great cities, no one tried to restore the armor to the infantry. They took their armor off, and when the armor came off - so too came their integrity." It was only a matter of a few years until the legion rotted from within and was unable to hold the frontiers and the barbarians were at the gates.

Integrity is a combination of the words, "integritas" and "integer". It refers to the putting on of armor, of building a completeness, a wholeness, a wholeness in character. How appropriate that the word integrity is a derivative of two words describing the character of a member of the profession of arms. The military has a tradition of producing great leaders that possess the highest ethical standards and integrity. It produces men and women of character. Character that allows them to deal ethically with the challenges of today and to make conscious decisions about how they will approach tomorrow. However, as I mentioned earlier, this is not done instantly. It requires that integrity becomes a way of life. It must be woven into the very fabric of our soul. Just as was true in the days of Imperial Rome, you either walk in your integrity daily, or you take off the armor of the "integer" and leave your heart and soul exposed and open to attack.

My challenge to you is simple but often very difficult. Wear your armor of integrity, take full measure of its weight, find comfort in its protection and do not become lax. And always, always, remember that no one can take your integrity from you. You and only you can give it away! The biblical book of practical ethics , better known as the Book of Proverbs, sums it up very nicely "The integrity of the upright shall guide them but the perverseness of transgressors shall destroy them". (Proverbs 11:3)

The Monsters and the Weak
Michael Marks - January 2006

The sun beat like a hammer, not a cloud was in the sky.
The mid-day air ran thick with dust, my throat was parched and dry.
With microphone clutched tight in hand and cameraman in tow,
I ducked beneath a fallen roof, surprised to hear "stay low".
My eyes blinked several times before in shadow I could see
the figure stretched across the rubble, steps away from me.
He wore a cloak of burlap strips, all shades of gray and brown,
that hung in tatters till it seemed he melted into the ground.

He never turned his head or took his eye away from the scope,
but pointed through the broken wall and down the rocky slope.
"About eight hundred yards," he said, his whispered words concise,
"beneath the baggy jacket he is wearing a device."
A chill ran up my spine despite the swelter of the heat,
"You think he's gonna set it off along the crowded street?"
The sniper gave a weary sigh and said, "I wouldn't doubt it."
"Unless there's something this old gun and I can do about it."

A thunder clap a tongue of flame, the still abruptly shattered;
while citizens that walked the street were just as quickly scattered.
Till only one remained, a body crumpled on the ground,
the threat to oh so many ended by a single round.
And yet the sniper had no cheer, no hint of any gloat,
instead he pulled a logbook out and quietly he wrote.
"Hey I could put you on TV, that shot was quite a story!"
But he surprised me once again - "I got no wish for glory."

"Are you for real?" I asked in awe. "You don't want fame or credit?"
He looked at me with saddened eyes and said "You just don't get it."
"You see that shot up length of wall, the one without a door?
Before a mortar round hit, is used to be a grocery store."
"But don't go thinking that to bomb a store is all that cruel,
the rubble just across the street, it used to be a school.
The little kids played soccer in the field out by the road."
His head hung low, "They never thought a car would just explode."

"As bad as all this is though, it could be a whole lot worse."
He swallowed hard, the words came from his mouth just like a curse.
"Today the fight's on foreign land, on streets that aren't my own.
I'm here today 'cause if I fail, the next fight's back at home."
"I won't let my Safeway burn, with my neighbors dead inside.
I don't wanna get a call from school that says my daughter died;
I pray that not a one of them will know the things I see,
nor have the work of terrorists etched in their memory."

"So you can keep your trophies and your fleeting bit of fame.
I don't care if I make the news, or if they know my name."
He glanced toward the camera and his brow began to knot,
"If you're looking for a story, why not give this one a shot?"
"Just tell the truth of what you see, without the slant or spin;
that most of us are O.K. and we're coming home again.
And why not tell the folks back home about the good we've done,
how when they see Americans, the kids come at a run."

"You tell them what it means to folks here just to speak their mind,
without the fear of that tyranny is just a step behind;
Describe the desert miles they walk for their first chance to vote,
or ask a soldier if he's proud, I'm sure you'll get a quote."
He turned and slid the rifle in a drag bag thickly padded,
then looked up again with eyes of steel as quietly he added
"And maybe just remind the few, if ill of us they speak.
That we are all that stands between the Monsters and the Weak."

I WILL FIGHT
By Barrett Tillman

Fought for power, fought for glory
Fought for kingdom and my kind.
Fought for conquest and survival,
Fought for eons, through all time.

Fought for avarice and ego,
Fought for land and fought for gold.
Fought for food and fought for women,
Fought in deserts and in cold.

Fought from horseback and from camels,
Fought on warships' slipp'ry decks.
Fought in chariots and panzers
And in supersonic jets.

Fought with spears and with missiles,
Fought from castles and from forts.
Fought with arrows and with cannon,
Fought for money and for sport.

Marched with Caesar and Pizarro,
Rode with Custer and The Khan;
Sailed with Nelson and with Nimitz;
Flew with Goering and beyond.

Stormed a hundred bloody beaches,
Sieged a thousand castle towns;
Conquered scores of foemens' countries,
Defending others for the crown.

Conquered Incas and Apaches,
Colonized the New World through;
Mastered Zulus and the Mahdi,
Beat the Moors and Carthage too.

Lost to Shaka and to Rommel,
Got whipped oft' by Bobby Lee,
Was by Bonaparte defeated
Ev'ry time I fought 'gainst he.

Yet through those years and struggles
Never once did I decline
To pick up a pike or musket
And to take my place in line.

For I came to love the battle
For its own bloody appeal.
Giving little thought to rightness
Or the cause my sword to wield.

From the Tigris and Euphretes
To Iwo Jima's distant shore,
From Sparta on to Crecy,
I just lived and died for war.

As a sniper or a lancer,
As an archer or dragoon,
Wherever there were wars to fight
I regarded that a boon.

I have been a kamikaze
And a bold Teutonic knight,
Serving emperors who rose and fell;
Equal fervor in the fight.

My cause was war itself, you see,
For I relished in the feel
Of foemens' blood upon my hands,
And the mastery of steel...

The clash of arms around me,
Joyous pounding in the brain,
And the bagpipes' eerie skirl
Were all part of my domain.

I have killed two hundred thousand
And have died a thousand times.
But like Valhalla's warriors
I arose again each time.

And then, one dreary battle dawn,
When pond'ring eternal fate,
It finally occurred to me
"Perhaps it's not too late!"

For I thought upon my hist'ry,
Of the times I felt most use
Were when we fought for freedom
And yet still were free to choose.

The names across the centuries
Came rushing back to me
Those heroes fought for freedom;
Broke the yoke of tyranny...

With Spartacus and Charlie
At Capua or Culloden Field,
At Lexington and Concord,
Wherever free men would not yield.

Call me rebel, call me traitor,
Call me patriot if you like,
But if you infringe my freedom,
Then I promise I will fight!

January 2, 1998

THE OLD MAN NEXT DOOR
By Pete Lessler

Hey little boy with the ball and the bat,
Do you know the old man next door?
With badges and pins on his funny old hat
You think he is just an old bore.

Now he sits in his garden with flowers and ants,
But way back before you were born,
He was once young and tough, calling anyone’s bluff,
He was a Devil in green baggy pants!

He leapt into space with a cork-blackened face
And a prayer that his chute wouldn’t streamer.
And when he touched down, on the enemy’s ground,
He fought like a wild Screaming Eagle.

Or…did he starve in the jungle, in the steaming green hell
Of Guadalcanal, when things weren’t going well?
Did he crouch in the darkness, his fear growing large
Waiting for the screaming Japanese banzai charge?

Hey little boy, pull over your bike,
Do you know that old man over there?
Was he crew on the Queen - Boeing’s B-17 -
As it fought its way through the cold air?

Seeing his brothers by the hundreds die –
As the Luftwaffe shot them out of the sky.
Did he never turn back, though Kraut fighters and flak
Were more than his courage could bear?

Did he dive from the sun in a P-51
Exulting in the loud roaring thunder
Of his full-throttle Merlin, and fifty-cal guns
As they tore German fighters asunder?

Did he fly all alone over the vast Pacific blue,
Praying to God that his days were not through?
Searching in fear for the steel postage stamp
On whose heaving deck he was praying to trap.
Praying, you see, for his aircraft was failing
From a hot Zero pilot’s 20-millimeter nailing.

Hey little boy, do you see that he limps?
Does that seem kind of strange to you?
Does his leg carry metal
From a Japanese mortar, or a German MG42?

Or was it the cold in a winter of old
That blackened and claimed all his toes?
Did he freeze to the bone in a town called Bastogne
Giving Hitler a bad bloody nose?

Or was it Korea, holding off a defeat
Was he there with the US Marine Corps?
In the Chosun retreat, on frost-bitten feet
Helping Chesty to guard the back door.

Hey little boy on your way to the store -
Do you know that old man over there?
Does his soul bear the scars of his days in a war?
Did he break down and cry when his best buddy died?
Does he still have the thousand-yard stare?

Hey little boy, take pause in your plans
Do you know the old man next door?
Does he still wake up screaming from nightmares he’s dreaming
Of brothers in arms who’ve all bought the farm,
And the blood he can’t wash off his hands?

Hey little boy, do you KNOW the old man next door?

"Human beings only have two ways to deal with one another reason and force. If you want me to do something for you, you have a choice of either convincing me via argument, or force me to do your bidding under threat of force. Every human interaction falls into one of those two categories, without exception. Reason or force, that's it.

In a truly moral and civilized society, people exclusively interact through persuasion. Force has no place as a valid method of social interaction and the only thing that removes force from the menu is the personal firearm, as paradoxical as it may sound to some.

When I carry a gun, you cannot deal with me by force. You have to use reason and try to persuade me, because I have a way to negate your threat or employment of force. The gun is the only personal weapon that puts a 100-pound woman on equal footing with a 220-pound mugger, a 75-year old retiree on equal footing with a 19-year old gang banger, and a single gay guy on equal footing with a carload of drunk guys with baseball bats. The gun removes the disparity in physical strength, size, or numbers between a potential attacker and a defender.

There are plenty of people who consider the gun as the source of bad force equations. These are the people who think that we'd be more civilized if all guns were removed from society, because a firearm makes it easier for a mugger to do his job. That, of course, is only true if the mugger's potential victims are mostly disarmed either by choice or by legislative fiat--it has no validity when most of a mugger's potential marks are armed. People who argue for the banning of arms ask for automatic rule by the young, the strong, and the many, and that's the exact opposite of a civilized society. A mugger, even an armed one, can only make a successful living in a society where the state has granted him a force monopoly.

Then there's the argument that the gun makes confrontations lethal that otherwise would only result in injury. This argument is fallacious in several ways. Without guns involved, confrontations are won by the physically superior party inflicting overwhelming injury on the loser. People who think that fists, bats, sticks, or stones don't constitute lethal force watch too much TV, where people take beatings and come out of it with a bloody lip at worst. The fact that the gun makes lethal force easier works solely in favor of the weaker defender, not the stronger attacker. If both are armed, the field is level. The gun is the only weapon that's as lethal in the hands of an octogenarian as it is in the hands of a weightlifter. It simply wouldn't work as well as a force equalizer if it wasn't both lethal and easily employable.

When I carry a gun, I don't do so because I am looking for a fight, but because I'm looking to be left alone. The gun at my side means that I cannot be forced only persuaded. I don't carry it because I'm afraid, but because it enables me to be unafraid. It doesn't limit the actions of those who would interact with me through reason, only the actions of those who would do so by force. It removes force from the equation...and that's why carrying a gun is a civilized act."

Profound Thoughts

The Quitter by Robert W. Service

The Quitter
by Robert W. Service