Observe the folks
of Auda City,
labell’d 'tres outre.'
Heels...? Hair...? Drinks...? Spiked!
Who'd get all psych’d
to them a
visit pay?
(Perhaps in June
I'll change my tune,
or May...
but not today.)
Poet Poe pens nonsense verse. "Plus...phun," puns Uly, "I disburse." Its gamut runs from spam to worse. The po'sy posted...? Poe's diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a mitzva, mostly. (Not a curse.)
No comments:
Post a Comment