Be baby l'homme or baby wench,
your baby's bum breeds babystench.
Despite the Glade, the air smells errant
all around your heir apparent.
Be baby blue or, maybe, pink,
still, baby's poo makes baby stink.
Though mater's son or pater's daughter,
baby smells unlike (s)he oughter.
Baby's yin crowns baby's yang
but can't begin to mask the tang.
Be baby bald or born with quiff,
the neighbors' called: they've had a whiff.
Some babies hide. Some babies seek.
But someone lied: all babies reek.
Your baby coos. Your baby yells.
But, breaking news: your baby smells!
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.)
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Composed and illustrated in 2019, each verse of poetaster Ulysses ("Uly") Poe's illuminated nonsense lyric "What A's ...
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