Poems For 2004

These poems have been posted on the list during the year and will be added to as the party progresses. However I have added John Coles poem from 2002 entitled "Our Special List"

The music is from Colours of the Wind Written by Alan Menken and Stephen Schwartz

You think you own whatever land you land on
The earth is just a dead thing you can claim
But I know ev'ry rock and tree and creature
Has a life, has a spirit, has a name

You think the only people who are people
Are the people who look and think like you
But if you walk the footsteps of a stranger
You'll learn things you never knew you never knew

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or asked the grinning bobcat why he grinned ?
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?

Come run the hidden pine trails of the forest
Come taste the sun-sweet berries of the earth
Come roll in all the riches all around you
And for once, never wonder what they're worth

The rainstorm and the river are my brothers
The heron and the otter are my friends
And we are all connected to each other
In a circle, in a hoop that never ends

Have you ever heard the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
Or let the eagle tell you there he's been
Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?
Can you paint with all the colors of the wind ?

How high does the sycamore grow ?
If you cut it down, then you'll never know

And you'll never hear the wolf cry to the blue corn moon
For whether we are white or copper-skinned
We just sing with all the voices of the mountain
Need to paint with all the colors of the wind
You can own the earth and still
All you'll own is earth until
You can paint with all colors of the wind

To sing at the party, which I cannot attend this year!

To Be Sung to the Tune of
GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN

Good Wishes, family history buffs,
Wherever you may be,
It's time to close that pc down
And raise a glass with me;
We've done our best the whole year through
Our ancestors to find:
So lets drink to that ever-growing tree,
(This round's on me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

We know it's not an easy task
To trace Great-uncle Jim,
Who went to Burma, married thrice,
And lived a life of sin;
He ran off with the parson's daughter -
She was number three -
So let's drink to that ever-growing tree
(This round's on me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Alo-ysius Finkelbaum
Is not a common name,
You'd think he'd crop up somewhere
But he's hiding just the same;
Tried IGI, the Census, FRC and BMD -
Hell, let's drink to that ever-growing tree,
(Thish roundsh on me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Tom Gadsden was a mariner - in 1691
He hopped the twig in Nevis
After too long in the sun,
But how to find his resting-place
Will be the death of ME!
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree,
(Da de da dee)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Though brick walls may confound us
And our eyes are growing dim,
We'll never stop our searching
For that one elusive limb -
We're addicts and we're proud of it
As anyone can see,
So let's drink to that ever-growing tree -
(Hic - no more for me!)
Let's drink to that ever-growing tree.

Have a safe one, everyone!
John
Cairns

And so the shortest day came, and the year died.
And everywhere down the centuries off the snow-white hills
came people singing, dancing, to drive the dark away. They lighted candles in the winter trees;
They hung their homes with evergreens;
They burned beseeching fires all night long
To keep the year alive.
and when the new year's sunshine blazed awake
They shouted, revelling!
Through all the frosty ages you can hear them,
echoing behind us: listen!
All the long echoes sing the same delight,
this shortest day,
As promise wakens in the sleeping land.
They carol, feast, give thanks,
And dearly love their friends,
and hope for peace.
And so do we, here, now,
this year, and every year:
Welcome Yule!

Blessings to you all!

Thought you may enjoy this, Kay

Two different Australian versions of Twelve days of Christmas.

      On the FIRST day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      A kookaburra in a gum tree.
      On the SECOND day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the THIRD day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the FOURTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the FIFTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the SIXTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the SEVENTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the EIGHTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the NINTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the TENTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Ten wombats washing,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the ELEVENTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Eleven lizards leaping,
      Ten wombats washing,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

      On the TWELFTH day of Christmas,
      My true love sent to me,
      Twelve possums playing,
      Eleven lizards leaping,
      Ten wombats washing,
      Nine crocs a-snoozing?
      Eight dingos dancing,
      Seven emus laying,
      Six sharks a-surfing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four lyrebirds,
      Three wet galahs,
      Two snakes on skis,
      And a kookaburra in a gum tree.

     On the FIRST day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me,
      An emu up a gum tree.
      On the SECOND day of Christmas
      My true sent to me,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the THIRD day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the FOURTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing
      Two pink galahs
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the FIFTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the SIXTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five Kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the SEVENTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the EIGHTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Eight dingoes digging,
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the NINTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the TENTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Ten lizards leaping,
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree.

      On the ELEVENTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Eleven numbats nagging,
      Ten lizards leaping,
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging,
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And a emu up a gum tree.

      On the TWELFTH day of Christmas
      My true love sent to me
      Twelve parrots prattling,
      Eleven numbats nagging,
      Ten lizards leaping,
      Nine wombats working,
      Eight dingoes digging,
      Seven possums playing,
      Six brolgas dancing,
      Five kangaroos,
      Four koalas cuddling,
      Three kookaburras laughing,
      Two pink galahs,
      And an emu up a gum tree

Have enjoyed all the Xmas Party e-mails.
Thought you might enjoy his poem.
I dont know the author.

Author unkown

I did not know them, but their home I knew
Where lilies glimmered and the aspens grew;
See there-beyond the farthest oakwood ride-
The flashing heron on the falling tide.

I did not know them, but I knew their gate-
Those rusted hinges-and that path of slate,
That surf of fierce, slow ivy: from the lane
Watch now the sunset in the sunken pane.

I did not know them, but I knew their sea,
That pelting flourish by the granite quay:
Their pocket-parlour: why she's hanging yet,
The China clipper in full canvas set.

I did not know them, but in me they live,
Eager and timid, staid and splenitive:
Their sailor's surging and their yeoman's cares-
I did not know them, yet they know me theirs.

Three lonely roofs were these, and far from mine
Where sharp spray tingles and the wet cliffs shine;
But those, my forbears, hold the land in fee:
In them all Cornwall dwells. They dwell in me.

Happy Xmas everyone. Bye from Deana in Hastings.

Hello Gang. Followng on from the Gloria Rose I hope that you will like
this little gem from ' Uncle Hal ' Best wishes Brian.

Told by Robin Redbreast.

Before I had a breast of red,
By Jesus I was daily fed,
The Saviours heart was kind and true,
He loved me, and I loved him too.
I saw the Lord one Friday morn.
He then was feeble, tired and worn,
By howling brutes the Lord was led,
A crown of thorns upon his head
His Sacred head was pierced and torn.
By many a cruel sharp thorn.
My heart was troubled much to see.
The dear Lord in his agony,
I pecked a thorn that pierced his brow,
The blood fell on my breast, and now,
The Sacred stain will ever remain,
Never to leave our breast again.
---
Signed and dated.
Albert Ohlson Crowle. Crantock. Easter 1941.

but do not focus on Christ, I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.

Love is kind, though harried and tired.

Love doesn't envy another's home that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.

Love doesn't yell at the kids to get out of the way,

but is thankful they are there to be in the way.

Love doesn't give only to those who are able to give in return but

rejoices in giving to those who can't.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things,

KINSMAN
(Original Poem by Wayne Hand, 1999)

Alas, my elusive kinsman
You've led me quite a chase
I thought I'd found your courthouse
But the Yankees burned the place.

You always kept your bags packed
Although you had no fame, and
Just for the fun of it
Twice you changed your name.

You never owed any man, or
At least I found no bills
In spite of eleven offspring
You never left a will.

They say our name's from Europe
Came state side on a ship
Either they lost the passenger list
Or granddad gave them the slip.

I'm the only one that's looking
Another searcher I can't find
I play (maybe that's his fathers name)
As I go out of my mind.

They said you had a headstone
In a shady plot
I've been there twenty times, and
Can't even find the lot.

You never wrote a letter
Your Bible we can't find
It's probably in some attic
Out of sight and out of mind.

You first married a..........Smith
And just to set the tone
The other four were Sarahs
And everyone a Jones.

You cost me two fortunes
One of which I did not have
My wife, my house and Fido
God, how I miss that yellow lab.

But somewhere you slipped up,
Ole Boy, Somewhere you left a track
And If I don't find you this year
Well..........Next year I'll be back.

Harry Kirby

In the Workhouse: Christmas Day
by George R. Sims

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables
For this is the hour they dine.
And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for -- with their rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's"
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries; "but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died."

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse the pudding?"
Could their ears believe aright?
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid a silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

"Whose victims cry for vengeance
>From their dank, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where's my wife, you traitors --
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us,
My Nance was killed by you!

"Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, --
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving
Break for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief.'

"I slunk to the filthy alley --
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve --
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her 'the House' was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, --
The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No,'
The moon shone in at the window
Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust -- I'm famished --
For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv'ry moonlight
My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast --
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She'd called for her absent husband --
O God! had I but known! --
Had called in vain, and in anguish
Had died in that den -- alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of the parish bread.

At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!

The Gloria Rose.

Mary came early on the third day,
Where for three days, the Saviour lay.
Her mother heart was sad and worn,
She would seek rest that blessed morn.
She saw the cruel thorny crown,
That Joseph on the ground threw down,
Had taken root, and from it grew
A glorious bush of radiant hue,
Covered in gold and living green.
No cruel thorn on it was to be seen,
The glory of the golden bloom.
Hiding the entrance to the tomb,
To Mary's heart came sweey repose,
For on each stem bloomed , a Gloria Rose.
---
Signed and dated.
Albert Ohlson Crowle. Pirates Perch.
Easter 1940.

Dear Santa:

Don't bring me new dishes;
I don't need a new kind of game,
Genealogists have peculiar wishes;
For Christmas, I just want a surname.

A new washing machine would be great,
But it's not the desire of my life.
I've just found an ancestor's birth date;

What I need now is the name ofthe wife.

My heart doesn't yearn for a ring
That would put a real diamond to shame.
What I want is a much cheaper thing:
Please give me Mary's last name.

To see my heart singing with joy
Don't bring me a red leather suitcase.
Bring me a genealogist's toy;
A surname, with dates and a place!

Anonymous

'Cheeky Bunny' Rita. The General, Her Matchless Piety, Lady Conductor.
The Elite Victor Over Noise.

Happy Hunting
Rita Bone Kopp,

This tract of land at St Just was obviously productive both above and below ground. Below is a poem published in the Old Cornwall journal V 4 Oct 1938 and written by a John Penrose of St Just.

(Read this to yourself aloud - it's great!)
>
If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,
and the bus is interrupted at a very last resort,
and the access of the memory makes your floppy disk abort,
then the socket packet pocket has an error to report.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash,
and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash,
and your data is corrupted cause the index doesn't hash,
then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!

If the label on the cable on the table at your house,
says the network is connected to the button on your mouse,
but your packets want to tunnel to another protocol,
that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall.

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss,
so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse;
then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang,
'cuz sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang.

When the copy on your floppy's getting sloppy in the disk,
and the macro code instructions is causing unnecessary risk,
then you'll have to flash the memory and you'll want to RAM your ROM,
and then quickly turn off the computer and be sure to tell your Mom!

Well, that certainly clears things up for me. How about you?

When I open up my e-mails and there's nothing there but junk,
Sometimes I think it's all come true - the list has really sunk.
So Kay sends us all a poem ,which is meant to make us smile,
And it's all about computers that go wrong, once in a while

To me it's all plain gobbledy gook, my memory must be thick
I'll wait till my son Bryn comes home to fix things with one click
All this talk of floppy macro codes and re-boots going crash
It drives me so far up the wall I give the thing a bash

I read the poem through again; the fog begins to lift
It must be written in a code so the clues I start to sift
I'm sure that I can work it out, athough it may take time
It really is about the words and getting them to rhyme.

If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,
and the bus is interrupted at a very last resort,
and the access of the memory makes your floppy disk abort,
then the socket packet pocket has an error to report."

Now if "packet" is a pasty could "socket" be a beer
Could a"last resort" mean Sennen .Ah..that starts to make it clear
Whilst I cannot see what memory has to do with a slipped disk
Sennen, plus a pint and pasty would likely do the trick.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash,
and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash,
and your data is corrupted cause the index doesn't hash,
then your situation's hopeless and your system's gonna crash!"

On the list we discuss menus of that there is no doubt,
But "double clicking icon's" would surely be ruled out
Or is it code for Rodda's cream with scones and strawberry jam?
The blood sugar's going through the roof as my data systems slam.

"If the label on the cable on the table at your house,
says the network is connected to the button on your mouse,
but your packets want to tunnel to another protocol,
that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall."

Well now I'm getting all confused, as you can plainly see
Network and Tunnel simply mean the train to San and me
Then there's the printer down the hall , thats " The Packet" News I'll bet
Is this the port of Falmouth with no fish caught in the net

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss,
so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse;
then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang
'cuz sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang.

Old Dr Seuss has beaten me but it's been such mighty fun.
If I had seen the subject line I should not have begun
Kay wrote "Off Topic" so that folk could read and plainly see
It was not on Cornwall-pasties- cream or gen-e-al-o-gy.

So thank you Kay for your great post which really made me grin
It brought back times of winter nights curled up with my son. Bryn.
"Read Dr Seuss", he'd cry aloud and pass a book to me.
"Cat in the Hat "or hairy "Grinch" are old friends to us you see.

George P
[plus a little help from San who says this is just the type of humour most
Cornish love: clever nonsense with a great play on words]

Tis Christmas on the Cornish List,
A time of year that can't be missed.
Time when friends from the world around,
Seek solace on our Cornish ground.

Friends so distant, yet so near,
Friends who seek a past unclear.
Yet Christmas is that time of year
When friendships are so much more dear.

And so, with merry hearts and joy,
The 'serious' it seems we do annoy.
Yet frivolous though our antics be,
The depth of feeling all should see.

For this is more than just a List,
And all it's members are not...
(but it rhymes)
This joy and pleasure, we have found,
Gives 'serious' pleasure all year round.

John Coles (Party

I have also written this poem on the wall in our kitchen before we put up some panelling. Maybe some long time in the future someone will find it. Hope they love this house as much as we do! Frances

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me,
Twelve census searches,
Eleven printer ribbons,
Ten e-mail contacts,
Nine headstone rubbings,
Eight birth and death dates,
Seven town clerks sighing,
Six second cousins,
Five coats of arms,
Four GEDCOM files,
Three old wills,
Two CD-ROMs,
And a branch in my family tree.

Merry Christmas to everyone!!

Within the timbers memory stirs

Of trips made far away,

Of men with salt blood in their veins

And seas both dark and grey.

-0-

Kelynack, Vingoe, James and Wright,

Hitchins, Symons and Boyns,

Edwards, Cattren, Harvey, White,

Some names from out the throng.

-0-

They came from Bowgey and Tolcarne,

From lanes and courts and opes,

They took onboard their sails and nets

And all their families hopes.

-0-

With bags of tea and condensed milk;

Some flour; a bacon side;

12 dozens eggs and home made bread,

They waited for the tide.

-0-

Her strong old timbers then knew the cry

"Up anchor boys we sail",

To chase the herring cross the sea

"Lord spare us from the gales"

-0-

So Gwavas Lake was left behind,

Her lug sails were set free,

Past Clements Isle and Tater Dhu

She headed out to sea.

-0-

Around these Islands she did sail,

Away for months on end;

Some crew were lost beneath the waves,

On that you can depend.

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So as you look upon her now

And once more hear him say

"It's just a plaything for the boy",

Think thou of yesterday

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Effective immediately, the following economizing measures are being implemented in the "Twelve Days of Christmas" subsidiary:

1) The partridge will be retained, but the pear tree, which never produced the cash crop forecasted, will be replaced by a plastic hanging plant, providing considerable savings in maintenance;

2) Two turtle doves represent a redundancy that is simply not cost effective. In addition, their romance during working hours could not be condoned. The positions are, therefore, eliminated;

3) The three French hens will remain intact. After all, everyone loves the French;

4) The four calling birds will be replaced by an automated voice mail system, with a call waiting option. An analysis is underway to determine who the birds have been calling, how often and how long they talked;

5) The five golden rings have been put on hold by the Board of Directors. Maintaining a portfolio based on one commodity could have negative implications for institutional investors. Diversification into other precious metals, as well as a mix of T-Bills and high technology stocks, appear to be in order;

6) The six geese-a-laying constitutes a luxury which can no longer be afforded. It has long been felt that the production rate of one egg per goose per day was an example of the general decline in productivity. Three geese will be let go, and an upgrading in the selection procedure by personnel will assure management that, from now on, every goose it gets will be a good one;

7) The seven swans-a-swimming is obviously a number chosen in better times. The function is primarily decorative. Mechanical swans are on order. The current swans will be retrained to learn some new strokes, thereby enhancing their outplacement;

8) As you know, the eight maids-a-milking concept has been under heavy scrutiny by the EEOC. A male/female balance in the workforce is being sought. The more militant maids consider this a dead-end job with no upward mobility. Automation of the process may permit the maids to try a-mending, a-mentoring or a-mulching;

9) Nine ladies dancing has always been an odd number. This function will be phased out as these individuals grow older and can no longer do the steps;

10) Ten Lords-a-leaping is overkill. The high cost of Lords, plus the expense of international air travel, prompted the Compensation Committee to suggest replacing this group with ten out-of-work congressmen. While leaping ability may be somewhat sacrificed, the savings are significant as we expect an oversupply of unemployed congressmen this year;

11) Eleven pipers piping and twelve drummers drumming is a simple case of the band getting too big. A substitution with a string quartet, a cutback on new music, and no uniforms, will produce savings which will drop right to the bottom line;

Overall we can expect a substantial reduction in assorted people, fowl, animals and related expenses. Though incomplete, studies indicate that stretching deliveries over twelve days is inefficient. If we can drop ship in one day, service levels will be improved.

Regarding the lawsuit filed by the attorney's association seeking expansion to include the legal profession ("thirteen lawyers-a-suing"), a decision is pending.

Deeper cuts may be necessary in the future to remain competitive. Should that happen, the Board will request management to scrutinize the Snow White Division to see if seven dwarfs is the right number.