One ponders
twin strands
as one wanders
through lands
where no
circumspect man’s ever been.
And none more
than the one
where the men
are all women
and all of the
women are men.
Guys are gals. Moms are Dads.
Sisters? Bros! Lasses? Lads!
Boys are girls. L’hommes are femmes. So it goes.
Hes are shes.
Hims are hers.
But a question occurs:
How’s one know
how one knows how one knows?
Uly Poe pens dogg'rel verse. "'Tis fun," hums Uly, "I disburse." The gamut runs from bad to worse. The matter treated...? Quite diverse -- most, postcards from his universe, replies to grudges he must nurse. My summary...? Let me be terse: a blessing largely. (Not a curse.)
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