Determin'd, she, to have a ball.
The monks have gather'd, mange 'n' all.
Last o' the red-hot mamas / Mass'd are the head-rot lamas.
The monks have gather'd, mange 'n' all.
Last o' the red-hot mamas / Mass'd are the head-rot lamas.
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.)
Wednesday, August 24, 2022
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