KANSAN Comment
Editor in Chief, Ron Yates
Business Manager, Pam Flayton
Editorial Editor Alan T. Jones
Edition Editor Sandy Zahradnik
News Editor Joanna Wiebe
Sports Editor Bob Kearney
Ad Manager Kathy Sanders
Idleness
It's spring and it's Friday and there's not really much happening and this editor really doesn't feel much like doing anything more than sitting under a tree or enjoying some suds somewhere so this is an idleness page.
You may notice the two cartoons, especially the one of LBJ lazily sitting against a tree. You may notice the poem written by a state senator as he sat idley in the Capital. Our you may notice that this column really doesn't fill the space allotted.
While many of us are are frustrated editorial writers, few of us get the chance. Well, here's the chance. Run this page into a typewriter and put your thoughts down. If you feel like showing them to someone, this editorialist will be sitting under the tree in front of Flint Hall for a time this afternoon. Good luck and watch out for letters to the editor. (ATJ)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch ...
Idle senator writes idle poem
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TOPEKA, Kan. (UPI) - Sen. Richard Rogers, R-Manhattan, while sitting idly at his desk in the Senate chamber Tuesday afternoon, wrote the following poem. The poem:
SEPTEMBER
When the goldenrod is yellow; and the corn is turning brown:
The Legislature will be in session we can't get out of town.
The Senate's highway bills are curling in the sun;
In dusty ruts the tax bills
Their last long race have run.
The lobbyists flaunt their harvest in every dusty nook:
As the days speed by, their faces achieve a desperate look
achieve a desperate look.
From the Jayhawk rooms at morning the grapes' sweet odors rise; The legislator's stomachs flutter with yellow butterflies.
With all these lovely tokens September days are here, with summer's best of bourbon, and autumn's best of beer.
It now appears apparent if someone's will won't bend, this legislative session will never, never end.
We will go on forever like the flying Dutchman's ship, 'til we grow to hate each other and die in combat grip.