Kilping’s Subadar Prag Tewarri—a lesson

The news today is all about the ‘deal’ between Paul Ryan and Patty Murray. It is supposedly a budget deal; it removes the Sequester, allows full funding of Obamacare, and generally gives the democrats everything they want—more spending, more taxes.

Paul Ryan, as an instrument of the GOP Washington establishment, has demonstrated once again the worthlessness of the GOP. The reason why they have allowed, no, participated, in screwing the country, again, is some misguided belief that it’s better to not roil the political waters prior to the upcoming elections this coming year. McConnell and Boehner will have primary opponents. So will other members of the ‘Pub establishment, such as #2 ‘Pub Senator John Cornyn.

It’s time to remind them that the voters, the conservative voters in this country has long memories. The losses of 2012 apparently have been forgotten. It’s time to remind them again—not by staying home come election day. That tactic failed in 2012 because the establishment ignored and purposed misinterpreted the causes of those losses—millions of conservatives chose to not vote for RINOs.

This coming year, we must use a different tactic—the Primary. Send the RINOs home. Vote for conservatives, perhaps one who is not the most conservative, but one who will beat the incumbent.

It’s time for the GOP to be taught a lesson. Somehow, as I was reading the Ryan-Murray ‘deal,’ the poem below by Rudyard Kipling came to mind.


Rudyard Kipling, 1865-1936

There’s a widow in sleepy Chester
Who weeps for her only son;

ere’s a grave on the Pabeng

A grave that the Burmans shun,
And there’s Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.

A Snider squibbed in the jungle,
Somebody laughed and fled,
And the men of the First Shikaris
Picked up their Subaltern dead,
With a big blue mark in his forehead
And the back blown out of his head.

Subadar Prag Tewarri,
Jemadar Hira Lal,
Took command of the party,
Twenty rifles in all,
Marched them down to the river
As the day was beginning to fall.

They buried the boy by the river,
A blanket over his face–
They wept for their dead Lieutenant,
The men of an alien race–
They made a samadh in his honor,
A mark for his resting-place.

For they swore by the Holy Water,
They swore by the salt they ate,
That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib
Should go to his God in state;
With fifty file of Burman
To open him Heaven’s gate.

The men of the First Shikaris
Marched till the break of day,
Till they came to the rebel village,
The village of Pabengmay–
A jingal covered the clearing,
Calthrops hampered the way.

Subadar Prag Tewarri,
Bidding them load with ball,
Halted a dozen rifles
Under the village wall;
Sent out a flanking-party
With Jemadar Hira Lal.

The men of the First Shikaris
Shouted and smote and slew,
Turning the grinning jingal
On to the howling crew.
The Jemadar’s flanking-party
Butchered the folk who flew.

Long was the morn of slaughter,
Long was the list of slain,
Five score heads were taken,
Five score heads and twain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back to their grave again,

Each man bearing a basket
Red as his palms that day,
Red as the blazing village–
The village of Pabengmay,
And the “drip-drip-drip” from the baskets
Reddened the grass by the way.

They made a pile of their trophies
High as a tall man’s chin,
Head upon head distorted,
Set in a sightless grin,
Anger and pain and terror
Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.

Subadar Prag Tewarri
Put the head of the Boh
On the top of the mound of triumph,
The head of his son below,
With the sword and the peacock-banner
That the world might behold and know.

Thus the samadh was perfect,
Thus was the lesson plain
Of the wrath of the First Shikaris–
The price of a white man slain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back into camp again.

Then a silence came to the river,
A hush fell over the shore,
And Bohs that were brave departed,
And Sniders squibbed no more;
For the Burmans said
That a kullah’s head
Must be paid for with heads five score.

There’s a widow in sleepy Chester
Who weeps for her only son;
There’s a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun,
And there’s Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.

— Rudyard Kipling, The Grave of the Hundred Head

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