Yesterday...? She shot chez Che.
Today...? Chez Cher (Perchance chez Charo.)
"Shoots are so for shit," you say...?
So: where shall she sashay tomorrow...?
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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