Huzzas to columnist John Rice for his March 12 parody of Carl Sandburg’s signature poem “Chicago” (Hog Butcher for the World). It was refreshing as a sunbeam during our dark and never-ending winter. He affectionately captured our village and its people, bumps and all.
Though not his intention, he prompted me to re-read the original, then go back to the other poetry I had neglected. But I guess it’s easy to put out a fresh column every week. To paraphrase old-time sportswriter Red Smith’s rueful reply: Just roll up your sleeves, slit your wrists and hit those keys.
Attaboy John, keep it going.