Black Bart

Professor Penwose Perception

Good evening,

One never knows where fate will fickle it’s finger?

There but for the grace of God, go I.
I cannot help feeling such after watching a treasured classic episode of Death Valley Days. This one actually hosted by The Old Ranger, a fellow more ancient than myself. If his remains are ever dug up it will be a Great Archeology Find.

I was a past tour guide in Death Valley and enjoy it’s stories and others of the Old West. This one was of a long remembered episode from my childhood days that lay buried in my medulla oblongata and anxious for rediscovery.

The subject was that of Black Bart. One of the most colorful outlaws of the 1870s and 1880s. He was a road agent robber of Wells Fargo Stage Coaches who always wore a long white duster, and a flour sack over his head with holes cut out for eyes. He had a fear of horses and made all robberies on foot, carrying an unloaded double barreled shotgun and sticks wedged in rocks acting as his “gang.”

Like myself, he was a gentleman, hence the previous phrase, “There but, yadda yadda yadda,” always polite, who spoke these famous words, which became one of his trademarks, “Throw down the box.”

Another trademark that strikes me. He sometimes left notes behind in the empty strong boxes. This is one of them…
I've labored long and hard for bread --

For honor and for riches --

But on my corns too long you've tred,

You fine-haired sons of bitches.

Signed, "Black Bart, the Po8."

The Po8? Whatever can that be? Po8
An early form of texting actually…Po(Po)…8(et)…The Poet.
I love it!
But I am not a poet. Neither is George, far worse than myself in fact.
I believe I will drop a little hint enticing him to go with…NoPo8.
I believe it worked!

Penwose Out,
By George
NoPo8