Who among us does not recall, and recite from memory, the
well-known lines of überScots poet Robert “Bobby” Burns? (Well, Henry doesn’t, but he can be
left out of account.):
The best laid schemes o' Mice an'
Men,
Gang
aft agley,
Many people ask me, “What’s with that ‘gang aft agley’,
anyway? Where’s that at?” And I answer:
Burns was a Scotsman, dummy,
plaid to the core; Scotsmen
talk funny, as you can verify from any episode of “Monty Python”; next question.
But the real reason I called you all here today, is to lay
out the sober truth about a different, and little-noticed, problem with that poem: the
best-laid plans of mice. Their
plans (“schemes” in Scots) are not actually very well-laid, if truth be
told. Oh, they’re frisky little fellows, and furry enough, twitchy little whiskers
and ears like a Mouseketeer -- but they don’t really specifically plan things. They just sort
of -- scurry around at random, and whatever happens, happens. Perhaps if they would do just a
little more planning, they wouldn’t be eaten so much, in abundance, mouthful
after tasty “mouseful”, by just about every other animal you can name. But -- Che será, será, says the
mouse.
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