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In a move wholly in keeping with his shifty and unreliable character, the Editor of this paper has moved his operation from his former place of business and set up shop in an undisclosed location outside the city limits. This move was entirely without prior notice and just ahead of the authorities who were wanting to ask him some very embarrassing questions. This development was a great surprise to all those who would love to get hold of his sneaky hide. Faithful subscribers were distressed to find that this nefarious bounder had taken all the files, records, and equipment necessary to continue the operation of this paper.
One neighbor, who chose not to be identified (fearing retribution) said, "The guy was the biggest melonhead on either side of the Mississippi and I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he had twelve toes, scales, and a lizard tail to go along with his forked tongue." "A lot of fine folks are going to be hurt by this," said Elmo Buttman, another neighbor who used to call the sheriff regularly to complain that the Editor was stealing his chickens and painting them bright colors. It was later learned that there had been bad blood between the Editor and Mr. Buttman ever since the Editor's prizewinning newsletter ran a series of articles making fun of Mr. Buttman's last name.
Regardless of these meaningless and trivial accusations, the attorney for this newsletter, Mr. P. Lee Bargain, of the firm of Dewey, Cheatam, and Howe advise again that a change of the name of the newsletter might serve to let tempers cool off while the Editor makes his way down to South America with his secretary, Trixie, where they plan to work on a book or something. Accordingly, the new name of this renowned and cherished newsletter shall be changed to The Texas Blabber. Any future attempt to link the editorial policy of The Texas Blabber to that of its predecessor papers, The Servant, The Herald, The Star, The Missionary Newsletter, Do Not Remove This Label, The Deseret News, and Close Cover Before Striking will be ignored.
In the unlikely event that you ever bump into the Editor or his secretary as they work on this very important project in Rio, just keep on walking and save yourself the embarrassment of saying hello.
This ode was written in honor of Sister Erika Jensen and Sister Brittany Batman who, while serving in Pariguan, Venezuela, were on separate occasions bitten on the bum by a heathen dog, a hound of hell, who knew not what he did or into whose righteous rumps he sank his loathsome teeth.
O gentle saint, in whose sweet smile
His Gospel shines with radiant light.
Who, from the bosom of His Kingdom,
Came to earth in holy flight.
You heard the breathless whispers, in quiet of night,
Give assurance of the noble and the holy birth,
Of He, whose latchet we are not worthy to undo,
Or unto whom we are not of equal worth.
You kept estates, granted us in former worlds,
So here on Earth, by virtue of the promise kept,
You were re-born and freely took the sacred vow
To take His name and love the ones for whom He wept.
You heard His quiet voice, amid the din of life,
Lead to paths whereon were strewn a bed of joys sublime.
Like petals of some sacred and most holy bloom
That fall when heaven's breeze blows softly from the font of time.
Obedient, you heard His servant's sacred plea,
To go to lands so strange and far, and teach His word to one and all.
That every knee should bend at utterance of His sacred name,
And New Jerusalem rise with golden street and alabaster wall.
So day by day, on mean and common street,
You seek the meek, the poor in spirit who know His voice.
And gently speak the witness of your heart
So all will have the right to make their promised choice.
In cottage bare, on bended knee, you kneel with them in humble prayer
That the Gospel's joys they'd quickly learn.
But alas, oftimes it never quite works out,
And their dog just bites you on the stern.
Keith once read this poem to his Gospel Doctrine class. After hearing the closing lines, some well-meaning listener blurted out, "You've ruined a perfectly good poem!"