Though ev'ry year the usage of 'aSUNder'
persists in its decline aMONg the verbal,
as archaisms' virTUEs go ignor’d,
WE'D push to advocate for
its re'hear'sal.
We thusly do so now – enTHUsiastic'lly --
to trend-thrall'd FRIends who obstinately fail
to use it. Tried, it’s sure to SATisfy.
(Addition’lly, a week unique you'll nail.)
PlaysWellWithLetters is a blogorrheal notebook of Nonsense in rhyming metres accompanying often-inconsequential sequencial graphics all issuing from the hands and/or minds of Sgt. N. ("Jim") Smithe-Magee, amateur author/illustrator whose several books are available online from Politics & Prose Bookstore under the nom de charade Ulysses Poe.
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Friday, July 12, 2019
Writ in Split: a Brief Life
Born in upper New York state,
of cuckoos you're the thane.
Inane
in Lorraine.
So starts the whispering campaign.
Rais’d in northwest Ecuador;
valet to Marshall Tito.
Incognito
in Quito,
you look'd smashing in your Speedo.
Once in Minnesota,
you devour’d my dog's albumin.
Inhuman
in Truman,
you're seen seas'ning Spot with cumin.
In the Urals with young Yuri;
you debauch’d yourself, long-term.
Now infirm
In Perm
you know of none who'd freeze your sperm.
You’re smoking in the island state.
Bad hash has turn’d your brain.
You’re insane
in Bahrain
(though your rhymes still entertain).
You reach Missouri’s "Show Me!" state,
then pass (or so we’ve heard).
Now you’re interr’d
in Byrd.
(Who wrote this obit? It’s absurd.)
of cuckoos you're the thane.
Inane
in Lorraine.
So starts the whispering campaign.
Rais’d in northwest Ecuador;
valet to Marshall Tito.
Incognito
in Quito,
you look'd smashing in your Speedo.
Once in Minnesota,
you devour’d my dog's albumin.
Inhuman
in Truman,
you're seen seas'ning Spot with cumin.
In the Urals with young Yuri;
you debauch’d yourself, long-term.
Now infirm
In Perm
you know of none who'd freeze your sperm.
You’re smoking in the island state.
Bad hash has turn’d your brain.
You’re insane
in Bahrain
(though your rhymes still entertain).
You reach Missouri’s "Show Me!" state,
then pass (or so we’ve heard).
Now you’re interr’d
in Byrd.
(Who wrote this obit? It’s absurd.)
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